The Bastard of Winter
by Jeormungander
Summary: Brandon Stark has a bastard son with Lady Barbrey Ryswell before his death at the hands of the Mad King. That son is raised in the Rills, until his mother's impending marriage forces him to foster with his family at Winterfell. Rated M so I have a little leeway with the language and violence later on.
1. Chapter 1

**Needless to say I own none of this. This is an A/U Game of Thrones where Brandon Stark has a bastard son with Lady Barbrey Ryswell before he dies trying to retrieve Lyanna. Enjoy.**

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The wind roared throught the forests of the north, whipping amongst trees and stones as it swept west. Any of the handful foolish or unlucky enough to be outside at night shivered as it passed over them and pulled furs and cloaks tighter before carrying on with whatever task they where about. Onward the gale carried, over the brooks and streams that littered the plains of the Rills until it reached Ryder's Rest, the seat of house Ryswell, lords of the Rills. A seat which they had taken from the Ryder's, the first men kings who had once ruled the western part of the north.

Inside, at the heart of the humble stone castle, a woman cried out in pain. Barbrey Ryswell screamed with a voice that only the pain of bringing a life into the world could bring. Beside her, her father Rodrik stared on, face cold and disspasionate, while her brother Rickard held tightly to her hand, urging her on. Suddenly another cry filled the air, the cry of a child. The midwife held the child gingerly as she cleaned it off, then looked up into the cold eyes of Lord Ryswell, "It's a boy m'lord, healthy too"

As if to support her claim the baby gave a mighty wail, crying out in hunger. Rodrik nodded, mouth twisting in a grimace as he regarded the child. Taking it as permission the midwife handed the baby carefully to Barbery. The young lady stared at her newborn son lovingly, ignoring the ugly truth that hung in the room. The boy was a bastard, a Snow, and as much as his mother might wish it he would never hold the lands of his father, of Brandon Stark, the man who had taken Barbrey's maidenhead. The action that had cost her much, and then Brandon had been bethrothed, not to her but to some soft southron lady from the Riverlands, a Tully. Then Brandon's sister, Lyanna had been taken by Rhaegar Targaryen, like a fool Brandon had ridden south and in his attempt to retrieve his sister had not only gotten himself killed but his father as well, and started a war. Even now Brandon's brother Eddard was calling the banners of the north to war to bring down the mad king Aerys Targaryen for his part in the death's of his family. Barbery's pregnancy had been for not, and despite her father's demands she refused to end it. In desperation Lord Rickard had sought a new match for her, he'd found one in Lord Willam Dustin of Barrowton. But Lord Dustin had made one demand in regards to the marriage, Barbery was to be allowed to have her child, his friend Brandon's child, in honor of the young man's memory.

But Willam was gone now, ridden for Winterfell with the men of Barrowton and the Rills, riding to avenge his friend. He had made Barbrey a promise before he left, promised her he would marry her when he returned. Barbrey looked down lovingly at her son, silently praying as she did so. Praying for a chance for him to make a place in the world, praying Willam would return unharmed, but most of fall praying for the death of every Targaryen alive, their deaths as vengeance for the death of Brandon Stark the man she had loved and who she would never have.

Her brother looked on proudly at his sister, she was never a beuty to fight wars over but she looked every bit the lady now, holding her son in her arms. Behind him their lord father finally spoke, breaking the silence that had taken the room. "Bastard needs a name." Four words, they came out in the tight dissaproving voice that was all Lord Rickard had used with his daughter in the months since her admission that she was with child, and that it was Brandon Stark's.

Rickard shot his father a glare, which the older man ignored staring imperiously at his daughter. She looked up at him, anger plain in her eyes at her father's usage of the word bastard. She looked down at the baby, anger melting away as she leaned down and kissed his brow. Looking into the babe's eyes smiled slightly as she noticed they where the same hard grey as his father's. Barbrey raiesed her head and looked into her father's eyes. "Torrhen. His name will be Torrhen."

Lord Rodrik snorted, "The king who knelt? A fitting name for the _bastard_." He placed special emphasis on the word this time. Then without another word he turned and left, leaving Barbrey to stare at his back as he walked away.

 _Ten years later..._

 **Torrhen**

Torrhen ducked underneath the sword and stepped close to his foe, growling fiercely he brought his own sword around towards his foes leg, only to find his arm held up by his opponent's hand on his wrist. Growing angry Torrhen brought his free hand up and around, belting his enemy across the face with his fist. With a grunt his opponent went down, then found Torrhen's blade at his throat as the boy panted heavily. From off to his left Torrhen heard a deep voice, "Not bad Torr, you're getting better with the blade."

Torrhen withdrew his blade and offered his opponent, the son of one of the guardsmen, a hand to his feet, a hand which the other boy accepted gratefully as he nursed a swollen lip where Torrhen's gauntlet had struck. Looking to the left Torrhen grinned at the man who had spoken, his uncle Rickard. Rickard smiled slightly as he approached, his long legs gracefully carrying him across the few paces from where he'd been leaning against the curtain wall that made up the training yard's west wall. Rickard rustled Torrhen's shaggy brown hair as he reached him, "You're growing to be a fine little swordsman, just like your da."His uncle winked, "Even if you do fight dirty."

Torr puffed out his chest with pride at the praise. Even at ten years old he was getting tall, a gift from his father his mother said. Add that to his grey eyes, black hair, and the stubborn set to his jaw and there was no doubt who his father was. There appeared to be little of his mother's house in him, except for the spark of intelligence in his eyes and his love for horses. Torrhen grinned up at his uncle, "Maddock taught me that, said fighting dirty and coming out alive is better than fighting with honour and winding up with a sword in your belly"

Rickard raised his eyebrow at that, "Oh? Maybe I should have words with Maddock" Torrhen's eyes widened slightly and his smile vanished as his uncle said that. The castle's master at arms was a tough man and a good fighter, but he had been born a common inn keepers son and some in the castle thought him unfit for teaching the blade to the young highborns of the Rills. Not that they included Torrhen in that group when they said it, but then again most fok ignored Torrhen when they could, except his mother, Rickard and a handful of others that was. Suddenly Rickard's grin widened, "I'll have to tell him to give you more advice"

Torrhen giggled in relief at his uncle's words. The older man chuckled again and looked to the young guardsman's son whom Torrhen had been sparring with, "Ban was it?" The boy nodded and Rickard continued, "You did good as well lad, just remember to keep your guard up, even when you think he's out of reach, a good lunge could get you and the fight would be over before it started. Torr, you need to watch your backswing, put more speed in it or you'll be open to a counter." As both the boy's nodded with wide eyes he paused. They continued to stare at him, "Well? Get to it." Jumping the two boys squared up to spar again, wooden practice swords at the ready.

 **Barbrey**

Barbrey smiled as she watched her son spar in the courtyard below from her window. Torrhen was a good lad, handsome, clever, strong, everything a mother could want. Her smile faded when she looked back to the two letters on her desk across the room. One had come in by raven not hours ago, the other was nearly a week old and both letters chilled her to the bone. The older message came from her father, off to the east on a visit to White Harbor and Lord Manderly, she didn't have to open it to remember what it had said, her father wanted her to marry Lord Manderly's second son, Wendell. She sighed at the thought, she had met Wendell several years ago, a kind man if somewhat boisterous, not that all of that bothered her, the worst part was that he was not merely fat but immense, and he valued his honor so highly that there would be no chance of her bringing Torrhen with her to White Harbor when she left in a fortnight. Barbrey wished she had heard of some rumor of her father's intention before she received the letter

Sighing once more she crossed to room and sat at her desk. Staring at the second letter she wished how things had gone differently during the war they where now calling Robert's Rebellion. The man she was supposed to marry, Willam Dustin, had died in that war killed by one of the Mad King's kingsguard, or so Ned Stark had claimed.. With Willam dead House Dustin was ended, Ned Stark had been forced to raise a new lord of Barrowton. He'd chosen some minor noble family without any lands, the Cassels. Word had it that one of them had died alongside Willam against the kingsguard, and now his son some young lad named Jory, ruled one of the largest town's in the north. That had never bothered Barbrey much though, she'd barely known Willam despite being betrothed to him.

Meanwhile Lord Stark had returned from the south with his sister's bones, telling the world that she'd been killed by Rhaegar. He'd gone south to fight a war wound up putting a man on the Iron Throne and all he had to show for it in the north was a sack of bones. Ned had also returned with a bastard, a babe a few months older than her Torrhen. He'd wed that Tully bitch while he was in the south and word had it he had three brats off her now, a son and two daughters which he was raising alongside his bastard boy.

She picked up the letter, which bore the Stark seal, a running direwolf. Barbrey's heart hammered in her chest. When the letter had come from her father she'd panicked, unsure what to do with Torrhen. She'd known that her father would never allow him to stay here in the Rills, he despised the boy, and Lord Wendell would never allow such a stain on his honor as the bastard son of his new wife in White Harbor. So in her panic Barbrey had sent a letter by raven to Winterfell. She'd begged Lord Stark to take her son as a ward, telling him of her plight and asking that the lad be raised with his father's family instead of sent off by her father. Afterwards Barbrey had fretted endlessly over whether or not it was the right choice, and now on her desk was the reply. Cursing her cowardice Barbrey lifted the tiny scroll and opened it, eyes scanning.

 _Lady Barbrey,_

 _I would be honored to accept guardianship of your son Torrhen, and would willingly take the boy on as a ward. Both for the love that I bore my brother and for the love that I know he bore for you._

 _Eddard Stark_

 _Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

Barbrey's heart skipped a beat, they would take him. For the first time in a week she laughed as she read the letter a second time. After the sounds of her joy subsided she stood and marched to her door, opening it quickly. The guard outside looked at her in confusion, unused to the usaully reserved lady that now laughed loudly. She looked at the man and still smiling spoke to him, "Send for my son, for Torrhen Snow. Tell him that once he has finished sparring he is to come to see me here. After that send for the Maester, tell him to prepare a raven, I wish to send a message to Winterfell."

Nodding the guardsman, turned on his heel and marched off quickly. Barbrey closed her door and went back to her desk, sitting to write a reply. Her son would not be turned out by her father. The Stark's would take him. Then the thought struck her that she would very likely never see her son again. Her smile disappeared as tears began to roll down her face. Nonetheless she wrote her reply to Lord Stark, giving it to the guard to deliver to the maester when he returned. Then she sat at her desk and wept, trying to justify her actions to herself, and trying to imagine how she would tell her son.

 **Torrhen**

Torrhen stared excitedly ahead, eyes focused down the Kingsroad with the hopes of seeing Winterfell in the distance. Fenric, the man-at-arms in command of his escort, had told him that they'd be there not long after midday and had sent one of the men ahead to warn of their approach. The journey so far had been a grand adventure. Passing through the Barrow Lands and visiting Barrowton with his mother. Torr's excitement slackened somewhat at the thought of his mother. His mind drifted back to when she'd called him to his chambers, to the sadness in her eyes when she told him of her approaching marriage, and the way she cried when she told him he couldn't come with her.

Torr's hands tightened around the reins of his gelding. He remembered begging to go with her, and then her telling him that he was to live at Winterfell. That had dulled the pain a little, but he'd still cried like a babe. They'd left not long after, him his mother and Uncle Rickard, along with near to forty guardsmen from Ryder's Rest. The journey had been wonderful until they reached the kingsroad, there his mother and uncle had kept going west, while a group of a dozen men and Torr had turned north towards Winterfell. He'd cried again when they parted and his mother had as well, uncle Rickard had promised to visit though and given him a sword, a real one, a big hand and a half sword like a grown man would use. Mother hadn't been happy about that, but uncle had just laughed and said something about a bastard sword for a bastard, which had made mother even more mad. Torr smiled at the memory.

Suddenly one of the guardsmen, a lanky man with greying hair named Kant, leaned over and nudged him. Torr snapped out of his memory as the man spoke, "There tis m'lord. Winterfell, home of the Starks." Torr's mouth almost fell open as they crested a low rise and saw the castle, It was so much bigger than Ryder's Rest, with huge stone walls and towers. Flying from nearly every tower was the Stark banner, a grey direwolf running on a field of white. It looked beautiful

Torr looked down at his attire self consciously, praying he'd make a good impression on his hosts, he wore a finely made red doublet without any sigils under a stout fur cloak. The rest of his clothing was plain, mostly leathers and furs. His gelding was tall and thick chested, black with white socks, and hanging from his saddle was the sword uncle Rickard had given him, with its plain hilt and the bronze horse head pommel. Torr looked nervously at the men around him, most of them didn't notice, talking among themselves about how they couldn't wait for a hot meal and a bed. Old Kant saw his gaze and gave him a wink though, and Oswin, his friend Ban's da, gave him a reassuring smile. Torr knew these men would be heading home after reaching Winterfell, he'd miss them their jokes about women that they told when they thought he wasn't listening, their arguing and laughter. Mostly he'd just miss the fact that they where the last people from home he would see in a long time.

As they neared the castle he saw the town outside it's gate, it bustled with people going about their business, a few stopped to watch his party pass for a moment before continuing on. The castle was even bigger up close, and as Torr realized just how big he gulped. A handful of guardsmen stood watch on the walls and Torr couldn't help but notice how much better their armor and surcoats looked compared to the Ryswell men with him. The Stark men-at-arms merely watched as they rode through the gate. In the broad courtyard beyond though more people waited, four standing awaiting him it seemed. In front stood a man with a greying beard and the same grey eyes as Torrhen. Standing behind him where three children, a pair of boys, one lean with dark hair and a grim look on his face and the other stockier with shaggy auburn locks. The girl was younger pretty, with the same auburn hair as the stocky boy, and beautiful blue eyes. From what mother had told him the girl and the auburn haired boy must be Robb and Sansa, Lord Stark's children. Which made the grey eyed man Lord Eddard Stark, his uncle.

Dismounting carefully Torrhen approached and bowed to Lord Stark, then knelt on the, thankfully dry, dirt of the courtyard. Trying to keep his voice steady he managed to speak, "Lord Stark"

The man watched him for a moment before speaking, "Rise lad, let me have a look at you." Torrhen stood, raising his eyes to look at Lord Eddard, nervous but defiant. After another brief pause the man nodded, "You look like him, you have his eyes, same jaw, bloody tall like him." Eddard smiled slightly, his own grey eyes softening a bit, "And you have that same look in your eyes like you're out to fight the entire kingdom. Torrhen Snow I welcome you to Winterfell, may your time here serve you well." He clapped Torrhen on the shoulder, "Come meet your cousins lad. Unfortunately my lady wife is watching over our newest daughter, Arya, isn't here to greet you." Torrhen caught the slight hint of disapproval in his voice, almost as if his wife should be here despite the baby. Lord Stark continued on however, "This is my eldest daughter, Sansa." he gestured to the girl, who curtsied and whispered a polite greeting, "My son Rob, he's your age, I pray you will come to value each other as brothers." The auburn haired boy grinned and offered a hand to shake. Lord Eddard stopped at the grim looking boy. "And this is my other son, Jon Snow."

Torrhen and Jon eyed each other curiously, Torrhen unsure of how to greet another bastard like himself and Jon obviously in the same position. Finally Jon stuck out his hand and gave a hesitant smile, "Torrhen was it?"

Torrhen took the hand and gave his own grin, "After the king of winter aye. But most of my friend's just call me Torr" Jon nodded thoughtfully at the words as his father looked on, obviously encouraged by the two lads seeming to get along. Then Rob broke the silence.

"Well then come on Torr, me and Jon will show you the keep, maybe later father will even let us spar in the yard, Ser Rodrick is letting us try with tourney swords now." The smile twitched back onto Lord Stark's face as Robb grabbed their new ward by the arm and dragged him off, happily chattering as Jon followed behind solemly, adding a word every now and then.

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 **Author's Note: This is my first fanfic on the site, hope everyone enjoys it. Feedback is greatly appreciated as I'm still a little hesitant on where to go with this story. This chapter is just to establish Torrhen's arrival with the Starks and his origins. I've adjusted the timeline a little as well as some character ages in this, Barbrey Ryswell is younger than in the books in this. Also the Greyjoy Rebellion has been pushed back a little and the ages of the Stark children and Jon fiddled with slightly. Thanks for reading this and I hope I get to publish many more after this.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Torrhen**

Torrhen smiled as his blade licked up to bat Bran's away from him, keeping the younger boy's sword from hitting his shoulder. Bran was panting heavily as he struggled to keep the point of his heavy wooden practice sword up with one hand, his other supporting the weighted shield on his arm. Torr shook his head, still smiling, "Come on cousin, you want to be a kingsguard you need to learn to put some speed into your swing. Don't want you to be as bad with a sword as Robb now do we?" Torr's eyes flicked off to his left where Robb was sitting on a rain barrel, watching the sparring match with Theon and Jon. As soon as his eyes left Bran the young boy made another swing with his blade, putting all his strength behind it.

Torr managed to step back away from the blow, though it was close. Nonetheless his grin widened, even as his cousins and Theon roared with laughter at the near hit. Bran looked slightly sheepish as Torrhen's attention returned to him. "I see you've been listening to what I said Bran. Though lets be honest that wasn't very knightly." Bran blushed a deep red, obviously embarrassed.

"How else am I supposed to beat you Torr? You're as good as Jon and father says he's the best sword in Winterfell." Bran's eyes flicked to Jon as he said this, and his half brother could be seen to stand a little straighter. It was true, Jon was an excellent swordsman a bit better than Torr in fact, he had speed over Torr's strength, and that was enough of an edge for him to win most of their bouts, though Torr kept it close by fighting in a more _unorthodox_ way as Ser Rodrick put it. Using kicks and punches when his foe wasn't paying attention, and even a few trickier moves that he usually kept in reserve.

Torrhen chuckled, "Exactly the point Bran, you can't beat every opponent with skill alone, you have to use your head as well as your sword. Why do you think Theon's such a terrible swordsman?" They Greyjoy shouted in protest from across the courtyard as Torr reached down to ruffle Bran's hair, "Best get cleaned up Bran, I hear your father wants you to ride with us today, they caught a Night's Watch deserter out at one of the holdfasts." Torr glanced at Robb to make sure he was right and his cousin nodded, so Torr pushed Bran gently towards the keep. Then he headed for the racks near the stables to remove his padded jerkin and hang up his practice sword.

It had been near to five years since Torrhen had arrived at Winterfell. Seven good years, Theon had arrived not long after he, another ward, unwillingly taken from his home after his father rebelled. Torrhen still remembered when Lord Stark had marched off to war to crush the Greyjoy's. Theon wasn't all bad though, he was loyal and always ready with a joke, though usually at someone elses expense. Torrhen and Robb had been forced to act as mediators between Jon and Theon more than once because of that. Not that Torr minded though, he was fond of all of his cousins though Jon held a special place in his heart. "We bastards have to stick together." He'd told Jon that more than once when helping to take the blame for some joke gone wrong, or when about to fight with some of the boys from Winter's Town.

Robb was different, not as quiet and serious as Jon. More fun to be around, though not as fun to spar with. Still Torr valued his friendship highly and hoped that one day when Robb was lord he'd be able to serve him well, unless he took some other path first. Jon had spoke of the Night's Watch more than once, and despite Torrhen's repeated protests against it, offering up any number of alternatives, squiring for some knight in the south, serving in a sellsword company across the Narrow Sea, or even just serving as master at arms for Winterfell, Jon seemed taken with the idea. Torr pushed the thought's of the Night's Watch from his mind as he stripped his jerkin off, grunting as it rubbed uncomfortably against one of several bruises Jon had left on him from sparring.

Unlike his cousins, who seemed to either favor their mother's family in the case of Robb, Bran, Sansa, and Rickon, stocky with auburn hair and blue eyes. Or the Stark's in Jon and Arya's case, lean with long faces and grey eyes. Instead Torrhen was tall, even at just fifteen he stood half a hand taller than Lord Stark, with long arms and legs. Though he was far from lanky, his shoulders where broad and his arms and chest where both thick with muscle. His jaw was square and had a stubborn set to it, though he was handsome enough to give Theon a bit of competition when it came to chasing the serving girls. Torr seemed to have little Stark about him aside from his eyes. Though Uncle Ned claimed that he was growing into the spitting image of his father.

Robb was the first to reach him as he shrugged into a plain leather jerkin, followed closely by his wolf skin cloak. Robb punched him in the shoulder, "Bran's getting better with his blade, you're not a half bad teacher after all Torr."

"Oh no he's still bad." The smirk was obvious in Theon's voice as Torr turned around. Jon was looking disapprovingly at the older boy when he spoke. But Torrhen just chuckled and shook his head.

"Good enough to tan your hide yesterday Theon, or has that bruise I gave you already stopped bothering you?" Theon smirked cockily as Torr turned his attention back to Robb. "So I heard right? Another deserter out in the holdfasts?"

Robb nodded grimly, "Father wants you to come as well, wouldn't mention why though." He shrugged as he started for the keep, others close behind, Torr kept pace with him however.

Behind them Jon seemed to be muttering to himself, so Torr dropped back and Theon took his place at Robb's side. Catching Torrhen's questioning glance Jon shrugged, "There's been plenty of deserters from the Watch lately. Makes you wonder whats going on up there don't it?" Torrhen and Robb both nodded in agreement, and Torrhen sent up a silent prayer to the gods that the thought would keep Jon away from the Night's Watch.

Robb nodded to the pair of guardsmen who held the door to the keep open for the four young men. "Don't matter to us though, the Wall's stood for thousands of years, it can handle whatever this is. Now come on, we need to go meet father before we leave." The four boys hurried down the hall, all thoughts of the Night's Watch gone from their minds.

 **Eddard**

Lord Eddard Stark rubbed his face tiredly, it had been a long day. He'd rode out to one of the holdfasts near midmorning, off to execute a deserter from the Night's Watch, an greying man, hard looking, not the type to run it had seemed at first glance. Nonetheless the man had fled, and that carried only one sentence here in the North. Death.

But the execution was not what had left the Lord of Winterfell so drained. Granted taking a man's life was no small thing, but it was something Eddard had done many times before, both in war and in peace. No it was the trip back that left him exhausted. What had started as a simple ride through the woods had taken a turn for the strange when they found a great stag dead on the road. The stag's killer was not far, a great direwolf nearly as tall at the shoulder as Robb, dead with the stag's antler broken off in its neck.

Eddard was a calm man, practical. But even he had felt uncomfortable when they found the direwolf's pups. Five, three male and two female, the same number and gender as his children. When Theon had gone to kill the pups it had been Jon to point that out, that and the begging look on Bran's face had been enough to break Eddard's will in the matter. He'd let them keep the pups, warning his sons that they would be their burden alone. Then as they'd gone to ride on, Jon found two more pups, away from the others, one and albino and the other a brute of a thing compared to its siblings. Pups that Jon and Torrhen had both quickly claimed for themselves. The coincidence was almost unnatural, a direwolf, sigil of his house, killed by a stag the sigil of his closest friend and king, Robert Baratheon. Then the pups, one for each stark child with two apart for the two bastard Starks, almost impossible.

All this passed through Eddard's mind as he walked to the godswood with Ice, his family's valyrian sword, in hand. Behind him he could still faintly hear the children fussing over the wolf pups. Rickon and the girls had been so excited when they saw them. It was almost enough to make his wariness fade. But he'd seen the apprehension in Catelyn's eyes, the pups made her nervous. The apprehension had been replaced with a cold, simmering distrust when she saw the pups in the hands of Torrhen and Jon.

Catelyn never had been fond of the two boys. She'd begged Eddard many a time to send them away to foster with another house, to spare her the dishonor of having them under their roof. To be honest he could understand her wishes, she saw Jon and was reminded of how little her own children resembled Eddard in looks, not to mention what she saw as a constant reminder of his betrayal of their marriage vows. She despised the boy, Cat was to good of a woman to say it openly but she did, only tolerating him for the love she bore Eddard and their children. Torrhen only made the matter worse, before he'd arrived she'd merely treated Jon with a cold indifference. But with two bastards in Winterfell, well her indifference had blossomed to the point where she actively avoided the lads.

Eddard thought of all this and sighed, sinking down to sit on the stone before the heart tree where he would sit to clean Ice. The boy's had put a strain between him and Cat, they didn't share rooms anymore, she'd moved to another part of the keep once Torrhen had arrived. But Eddard couldn't make either of the boys leave, they where blood, not to mention he'd made an oath to protect both of them. He ran an oilcloth along ice, cleaning the last vestiges of blood from the greatsword's smoky blade.

As his hands worked Eddard's gaze drifted up to the heart tree, settling on the long, weeping face carved into its trunk. Here in the godswood, everything seemed calmer no matter what was going on outside. No matter whether it was war, or angry wives or anything else that befell him, all faded away here. When he'd returned with the boys Maester Luwin had given him a letter, flown in by raven not long after he'd left. King Robert was coming to the North, to Winterfell. Though the letter had not mentioned why he was coming. That letter was what had made him think of the direwolf and the stag, it seemed like an omen. Sighing he swept the cloth along the blade again and stared at heart tree, wondering.

 **Torrhen**

Torr laughed as he watched his wolf pup wrestle with Robb and Jon's. Jon's white and silent as Robb's yipped and growled along with Torrhen's. The two smaller pups working together to try and wrestle Torrhen's to the ground. Nearly a month had passed since they found the pups, and they where growing fast and strong, the size of hounds nearly three times their age. Jon had named his Ghost and Robb was calling his Grey Wind. The other Stark children had all named their's as well, except Bran, he still struggled to find a name for his wolf. Torrhen's smile widened as he watched his pup wrestle Ghost to the ground, only to be tackled by Grey Wind. He'd decided his pup would be named Harlon, after one of the Stark King's of Winter that Maester Luwin had spoken of.

"Here you little rascal" He reached down and grabbed Harlon by the scruff, grunting as he picked the direwolf up. "Your to big for this shite. You realize that?" The pup growled playfully and nipped his chin in response. Holding Harlon under one arm and petting him absently, Torr watched as all around the courtyard servants and guardsmen scrambled. The King was coming to Winterfell, messengers said he'd be here within the hour. Standing on the battlements, dressed in his finest clothing was Robb, Rickon at his side, collar held loosely in one hand to keep him from running off into the mud and infuriating his lady mother. Torr laughed at the thought.

Jon looked up from his seat by the stable door, where he was busy polishing some skinny sword that he'd been pestering Mikken about all week. His cousin cocked an eyebrow, twisting his face curiously. "What's so funny Torr? Tired of watching your pup get trounced?" Jon reached down and patted ghost as he spoke, the albino wolf curled silently at his feet now.

Torr just laughed again, "Nay, just feeling sorry for poor Robb up there. All fancied up to meet some soft southern king. He might be excited now but wait till they start bitching about the cold and the food." Torrhen snorted, "Then he'll wish he was on the bloody Wall." He gestured down at his own attire, plain leather breeches and jerkin with stout boots and a red horse head sewn to his shoulder, "This is one of the few perks to not being a Stark, I don't have to put on special breeches every time a lord comes riding in."

Jon just shook his head almost pityingly at his cousin. Whether it was for the joke about his beloved Wall or just because he thought him an idiot, Torrhen wasn't sure. Equally likely, though probably both to be honest. Torr jerked his chin at the sword in Jon's hand, "What you planning on doing with that anyway? Sailing to Braavos and becoming a water dancer?"

Jon's face went blank as he gave the blade a last swipe with the whetstone, "Something like that aye." Then a grin spread across his face, "Then again I might just use it to clean my finger nails after I beat you bloody next sparring match." Torrhen laughed at the jest, and let his gaze drift back out to the courtyard. Lord Eddard was crossing it towards the two bastards, looking regal in his wolfskin cloak he'd had made from the direwolf on they'd found on the road, a fine brooch in the shape of a howling wolf holding his cloak on.

He reached the stables and paused to inspect the two young men, eyebrow edging up at the sight of the Ryswell stallions head on Torrhen's shoulder, to witch Torr shrugged. "Figured it might make lady Catelyn feel a bit better if I didn't paint myself as a Stark to much m'lord. Got Jon to do it too." Jon too had refrained from wearing the direwolf sigil, instead wearing plain black clothing that almost made him seem like a brother of the Night's Watch already.

Eddard nodded grimly, "I see, that was awfully considerate of you Torrhen. Unfortunately my lady wife has asked that you two stay out of sight when the king arrives...and she wants you to lock up the pups as well. All of them." Torrhen bristled at that, he was fine with staying out of sight, but the wolves hated to be locked in the kennels, all of them.

Even as he opened his mouth to protest Jon spoke up, "Aye father, we wouldn't want to displease Lady Catelyn." Jon shot Torrhen a look as he spoke, and Torr snapped his mouth shut, letting cooler heads prevail for now. Lord Stark took note of the look but said nothing, only nodded thankfully and turned to walk to the rest of his family as they waited for the king.

Jon waited before he was out of earshot before cuffing Torr, "No need to piss her off more Torr, she already hates us enough." Torr just glared across the yard at Lady Stark for a moment before Jon spoke again, "Come on you ox, grab the wolves, we can watch all this from the gatehouse tower, we'll keep them with us while we're there" Grabbing Grey Wind under one arm and whistling for Ghost to follow Jon headed off for the gatehouse.

Torr watched Lady Stark for a moment longer before turning on his heel and following Jon, Harlon still clasped firmly under one arm. Along the way he called for the other wolves, and they reluctantly followed him away from their masters and into the tower.

It wasn't long before the King's party came into view. A large group coming trundling down the road towards Winterfell. There where numerous knights with their pretty armour and banners, followed by servants and common guardsmen. Jon and Torrhen watched curiously as they came through the gates. The golden haired woman who exited the largest wheelhouse had to be the queen, Cersei Lannister. Which made the pretty girl who followed her, her daughter Princess Myrcella and the chubby boy who clung to her skirts Prince Tommen.

They guessed at various other members of the parade as well. The dignified man in the white of the kingsguard had to be Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold they called him. The haughty fellow in gold with hair that matched the queen's was without a doubt her twin brother Jaime, the kingslayer. What really surprised them was when the fat man at the head of the column dismounted and spoke to Lord Eddard. Jon was the first to notice the crown on his head and realize that he must be the king. The king was a far cry from Lord Stark's stories of him, handsome and strong with mighty war hammer in hand. Instead he looked fat and worn down as he introduced an arrogant young blonde boy to the Stark family, probably the Crown Prince, Joffrey.

Jon and Torr glanced at each other, unimpressed with most of the royal party as Lord Stark and King Robert headed off alone, making for the crypts. Jon spoke first, "What do you think of them?"

Torrhen shrugged and sipped at a wine skin he'd swiped from the guard's table, nudging a sleeping Harlon off his foot, "Queen's got nice tits, and her daughter's pretty enough" He hid his smirk with another swallow of wine, waiting for Jon to get mad.

Instead Jon merely grimaced, "You're around Theon lately, your starting to sound like him." Theon was in the yard below with Robb, in the heart of the proceedings, and playing the noble lordling to the hilt. Jon then shook his head, "I meant the king, the prince, their men."

Torr frowned this time, "King's not what I was expecting, Prince seems like he's a bit of a spoiled brat, can't say for sure from here though. Looks like most of those pretty knight's aren't worth much, though I see a couple who might be worth their steel, the big bastard with the dog helm and the kingslayer for one."

Jon nodded in agreement and snatched the wineskin from Torrhen, "Father said they'd be staying a few weeks maybe, guess we'll get to see in the mean time. Hear that Uncle Benjen's on his way in with some rangers too. Might go with him to the Wall if father lets me..." Jon trailed off, gaze turning to Torrhen again, taking in the resignation on his face. "But we have to survive dinner first."

Torrhen rolled his eyes and leaned against the tower window, staring down at the group below. Looking them over he realized that Lord Stark still hadn't mentioned why the king had come to Winterfell. Frowning he wondered what could possibly make a man as fat as the king come this far.

 **Author's note:**

 **I had this chapter half written when I posted the first one, so it's posted much faster than they probably usually will be. Thanks for all the follows and favorites. To answer some questions that arose in the reviews here I go:**

 **jean d'arc: I'm not sure how Torrhen's allegiances will work out in the war of the five kings, partly because I'm still trying to determine where his story will go from here. I'm torn between him convincing Jon to stay with Robb at Winterfell instead of joining the Night's Watch, Joining the Night's Watch with Jon to watch his back, or kind of just saying screw off to Jon and staying at Winterfell with Robb alone. Kinda curious what everyone thinks would be the most interesting story line.**

 **Dionaea007: Jon will be Lyanna's son in this version and will still fit into the time frame, he is in fact about half a year younger than Torrhen, just cause Torr was born towards the beginning of Robert's Rebellion and Jon was born towards the end.**

 **Once again thanks for reading, reviews are always welcome (I need all the help I can get), and if anyone's willing I am looking for an editor to make sure I don't make to big of an idiot of myself.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Torrhen**

The feast was in full swing, music, shouting and laughter filled Winterfell's great hall as the king's party and the folk of the castle celebrated his majesty's arrival. The king and Lord Stark sat on a raised dais at one end of the hall with their wives. Beneath them, on a lower dais sat the royal children and the Stark children. Torrhen and Jon had been seated down at the long tables that covered most of the hall, away from the true born children, likely at lady Catelyn's command. Not that either of the young men minded, here they could drink as much as they wanted and the young squires who had come north with the king had a great many tales and jokes to tell.

The feast had begun with a procession of the royal family and the Starks up to the high table. Lord Stark had escorted the Queen, the beautiful woman smiling hollowly the entire walk across the hall. King Robert had escorted Lady Catelyn, up close the king was even more disappointing, a tall man but fat, with grey starting to tinge his beard, not to mention that he stumbled like he was half drunk the entire walk.

Robb had escorted the young princess, Myrcella, up close she looked like a sweet young girl, with none of the bitterness in her eyes that her mother had. Robb had been grinning like an idiot as he held her arm gently, he'd pointedly ignored Torr's snickers as he passed. Bran and Rickon where both walking alone, though neither seemed bothered by it. Sansa was given the _honor_ of escorting the crown prince, Joffrey. The lad was almost prettier than Sansa, with his golden hair and fine features, though the look on his face made anyone who saw him think twice, the arrogance and disdain was plain. Torr had felt Jon bristle when his cousin had seen the prince, younger than them by two years yet taller than Jon and Rob. Torrhen just smiled, he didn't have Jon's problem, the prince only came up to his chin. Arya and the younger prince, Tommen, followed the plump young boy looking out of place in Winterfell's hall, his hair longer than Arya's.

After the noble children came the queen's brothers, a kingslayer and a dwarf, the lion and the imp. Jaime Lannister looked like a king himself, tall and golden haired with a proud tilt to his chin. Yet everything from his swaggering walk to the way he held himself pointed to him being a deadly warrior as well. The Imp, Tyrion Lannister, came up only to his brother's hip, most who saw him would think the dwarf hideous. To be honest Torr would agree with them, but the imp's eyes spoke of intelligence and a compassion that seemed to be absent from the eyes of his siblings. Following the Lannisters came the surprise guest, Uncle Benjen. The first ranger of the Night's Watch was dressed in the black of his order looking gaunt and inrimidating as he'd walked the hall, yet he'd managed a smile at his two bastard nephews. Earning him a raised glass from Torr and a nod from Jon.

The feast was nearing its close now, Jon was half drunk on summerwine and was busy feeding an entire chicken to ghost underneath the table. Torr wasn't even pretending not to be drunk, he'd already gotten in a fist fight with a squire from the Westerlands, a and for the life of him couldn't remember whether or not the lad been a Crakehall, a Westerling or a Brax. Torr had beaten the lad senseless, then shared a horn of mead with him and laughed about it. Even now he had a pretty serving girl in his lap, Sera, a girl he'd kissed behind the stables before and was singing _The Bear and The Maiden Fair_ to now. She just giggled and corrected him when he got the words wrong.

Torr's off key singing was interrupted by a voice from behind him, even though it was directed towards Jon."Is that one of the direwolves I've heard so much off?" Torr looked away from Sera long enough to see his Uncle Benjen standing behind the two bastards. He was obviously referring to Ghost, the white direwolf still ripping into the chicken.

Jon looked up excitedly at their uncle as Torr shooed Sera off his lap and cleared a space on the bench for Benjen. Jon's grin was infectious, "Actually its two, Torrhen's is under there somewhere as well." Actually Torrhen was pretty sure that Harlon had wandered off to steal table scraps from someone else, a suspicion that was confirmed when a Lannister man-at-arms further down the table squeeled like one of the Queen's handmaidens as a large black shape bounded out from underneath the table to grab a full leg of mutton in its teeth before vanishing back into the shadows.

Benjen noticed the commotion down the table as well and looked disparagingly at Torrhen. "That pup must be yours then? The manners match at least." Torr just raised his drinking horn in a mock toast, grinning like a fool. Benjen clapped him on the shoulder and sat between him and Jon, snagging a glass from Jon's hand and downing it. "Summerwine, still as sweet as I remembered." He glanced between Jon and Torrhen, "And how many glasses have you lads had?'

They both smiled, Jon guilty and Torrhen unapologetic, their responses only high lighting the differences between the two lads.

Benjen laughed, "I see. No matter, if I recall I was younger than either of you when I first was truly drunk." He snagged an onion from a platter and bit into it, eyeing Ghost as he crunched away, "A quiet wolf." He bit into his onion once more.

Jon nodded, "He's always like this, its that's why I named him Ghost. Well that and because he's white."

Torrhen piped up, draining the last of his horn. "That's why we gave him to Jon, a quiet wolf for a quiet man." He winked at Jon, who just shook his head as usual, exasperated.

Benjen turned around to look at Torr, eyes twinkling with laughter, "And I suppose yours is loud and obnoxious? Not to mention he won't leave the serving girls alone." Torr's uncle nodded after Sera.

Torr tried to look hurt, even going so far as to plant a hand on his chest. Then burst out laughing, he couldn't keep it up. Benjen and Jon both laughed as well, followed by the few men at the table who'd heard Benjen's jest. Benjen turned back to Jon and the two began talking as Torrhen went back to listening to some bawdy story a squire down the table was telling.

"We could use a man like you at the Wall." Torr's head snapped up and around at the sound of those words, Benjen was looking at Jon carefully, and his cousin looked ready to burst for pride.

"Robb's a better lance than me, but I'm as good a sword a Torr, and Ser Rodrick says that he's the best swordsman Winterfell has seen since Uncle Brandon." Jon went silent as he said that, having just realized what he said. He looked apologetically at Benjen, then Torr. Benjen turned in his seat to look at Torr as well, studying his face for his reaction, if any.

Torrhen had felt a brief flash of sorrow at his father's name, enough to dull what little of his mood remained after hearing Jon and Benjen talk of the wall. But only a moment, before Benjen had even turned to look at him he already had his usual cheerful mask back up, "Never heard Ser Rodrick say that Jon, and to be honest you're a might better than me." Torrhen waited for their attention to shift back to each other before letting his smile drop.

He'd never known his father, Brandon Stark had been killed by the Mad King not long after Torrhen was born. As far as he knew his father had never even seen him, much less heard of his birth, before his death. But Torr had one advantage over Jon, he knew his both his parents where, and he'd gotten to grow up with his mother. Sure he'd never met his father, but his Uncles, Eddard, Rickard, Roger, Benjen, even uncle Roose, Ryswell not Bolton thank the gods, they'd all filled that gap. Jon didn't have that.

Torrhen snapped himself out of his thoughts and lifted his gaze and his attention back to Jon and Benjen. Benjen was speaking, a slight note of pleading in his voice, so faint as to almost not exisist, "You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."

Jon looked mildly offended at Benjen's words, "A bastard can have honor too, I want to-I'm _ready to_ swear the oaths."

Benjen just shook his head, "You're young still. Barely a man. Until you have known a woman, you can't understand what you would be giving up."

Jon was starting to get angry Torrhen noticed, his face was flushed from more than just the heat and the wine. "I don't care about that!"

Benjen smiled faintly at his nephew, his voice wistful, "You might, if you knew what it meant. If you knew what you where giving up, you might be less eager to pay the price then." Benjen stood, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Come back to me when you've fathered a few bastards of your own, then we'll see how you feel."

Jon's anger broke loose as Torrhen watched, his face darkened and he spat his next words with force. "I will never father a bastard. _Never!_ " The table fell silent around them. Glancing around self consciously Jon muttered some excuse and stood, walking quickly for the door, Ghost following close behind him.

Torr went to stand to follow his cousin, only for Benjen to hold out an arm, "Let him go, we all have some things we need to work out ourselves, this is one of his." The older man turned to Torrhen, "What do you think, is Jon ready?"

Torrhen sighed and sank back to his seat, "Aye, he's ready for the Night's Watch. Like he said, he's an excellent blade. I don't like the idea of him leaving though."

Benjen nodded, "He's your blood, it'd be wrong if you did," he sighed, "I'll tell his father he wishes to join the Watch, let him decide if Jon's truly ready. He'd do well there I think." Benjen looked after Jon, just in time to see the door of the great hall close behind him. Then his gaze turned back to Torr once more, "You really do look more like your father every year." Flashing a grin he walked away, heading back for the high table.

Torrhen watched him go, wondering what, if anything, that last comment was supposed to mean. Then with a shrug he turned back to the feast, only to find most of his companions either asleep or in some form of leaving to find their rooms. With a sigh he stood himself, might as well head back to his chambers. All he had to do was find that blasted direwolf first.

 **Robb**

Robb cheered as Bran and Prince Tommen sparred. Both boy's looked ridiculous, wearing enough padding to make them look like miniature King Robert's. Their movement's where slow due to the heavy garments but their enthusiasm was contagious. He smiled as Bran managed to knock Tommen's sword wide and trip the blonde boy, who raised his hand in surrender. As Ser Rodrick came forward to separate them Bran reached down and helped the prince to his feet. For that alone Robb was proud.

Glancing around the training yard Robb took notice of all those watching. Prince Jofferey stood in the shade of the wall, surrounded by squires and a handful knights, joking with his men, an arrogant smile stretched across his fat lips as he watched Bran and Tommen struggle out of their armor. Watching from one of the window's he could see Arya and Jon, their direwolves just visible over the window ledge as they cheered Bran's victory. Seated on the fence near the kennels was Torrhen, as usual. Robb smiled, his cousin looked rather haggard, and seemed to be arguing with his wolf pup, obviously he'd drank to much last knight.

Ser Rodrick's voice came to him, "Prince Joffery, Lord Robb, will you two be having another match?"

Robb stepped forward eagerly, anticipating a chance to put the Prince on his back, as he already had once this morning. "Aye I'll go again."

Joffrey was more relaxed and less eager about it, looking bored. "These children's games tire me Stark. If we _must_ spar again let it be with live steel."

It took Robb less then a heartbeat , "Agreed. Ser Rodrick?" _The little up jumped shite thought he was better than everyone in Winterfell, I'll show him._ The thought brought a confident grin to his face.

The castle master-at-arms shook his head, "I'll permit tourney blades m'lord. But not live steel, not until you're ready."

It was one of Joffrey's men who spoke this time, a big man with a hound helmet and burn marks across one side of his face. A hard looking man, Robb remembered hearing his name last night, Sandor Clegane. The Hound. Supposedly he was Joffrey's sword sword. "You would deny your prince? Who are you that you have that right, _ser._ " The emphasis on Ser Rodrik's title was almost an insult.

The elderly knight bristled, "I am the master-at-arms of this castle. And here, in this courtyard my word is law. The prince and the young lord will not have live steel until they are ready."

Joffrey waved his hand dismissively, "Very well then, I was tiring of this anyway. Come Tommen, let us go find mother." The prince turned to walk away, head raised arrogantly, though Tommen seemed rather reluctant to follow. Robb clenched his teeth in annoyance, it was almost like Joffrey had forgotten that Robb had beaten him into the dirt not twenty minutes before.

As the prince's men turned to walk away Torrhen spoke up, having set his direwolf, Harlon, down off to the side. "Ser Rodrik, if the prince is bored maybe we should give him a show? I wouldn't mind matching blades against Ser Clegane here, blunted or live." Robb's gaze snapped around to his cousin, as did every other gaze in the courtyard.

Ser Rodrik looked hesitant as he eyed the Hound, the sworn sword was nearly twice Torr's age. "If the good ser accepts I don't see why not, tourney blades of course." Clegane looked amused at the idea on the other hand, and nodded firmly at Rodrik. The elderly knight looked to Torr, "Go get your armor on then Torr."

Standing the bastard gave a confident grin and strode calmly for the armory. Joffrey and his men chattered excitedly, and Robb saw several squires run off, as if to gather a crowd. The Winterfell guardsmen looked to be doing the same. Robb, hurried after Torr, from the corner of his eye seeing Jon do the same. The three of them entered the armory, and as soon as the door closed all hell broke loose.

"Have you lost your gods damned mind?" Jon was almost yelling as Torrhen took down the battered plate armor he used for sparring. "He's almost twice your age, and the sworn shield of the prince! What makes you think you have any chance of beating him?"

Torr shrugged and glanced at Robb, "Help me into this?" As Robb scrambled to help him put on the plate armour Torr turned to Jon. "I just have to fight like you Jon, speed. Have you seen him? He's big and strong yes but he'll be slow, I've got a chance." The next part was quiet enough that Robb wasn't even sure he was supposed to hear it, "Just not a very _good_ one."

Jon shook his head vehemently, "You didn't stop and think this through did you? You're going to go out there and get beaten to a pulp. Then father will be angry with you."

Torrhen shrugged as he slid on the padded gloves that would back his gauntlets. "Of course I didn't, it runs in the family." There was a touch of bitterness in that comment, he was thinking about his father again if Robb was right. Then Torr's cheerful confidence was back, "But the prince has been speaking ill of Winterfell and the North all morning. Unless you two missed it?" Jon and Robb both shook their heads, of course not. "Well somebody needs to shut him up, Robb can't do it cause the little prince won't fight him, and I can't hit him, I'm a bastard. So i'll settle for the next best thing, his lackey. Besides, uncle is always mad at me."

Torr finished arming and strode for the door, Robb and Jon following, though the two looked nervously at each other as they did so however, As the three young men left the armory they where struck by how much the crowd had grown in the short minutes since they'd entered. Arya and Bran where leaning out the window where Jon had sat. Almost every guardsman who wasn't on duty was gathered to watch, and Robb was pretty sure Tommard was actually _supposed_ to be on duty but he was here too. It seemed that most of the King's party had come as well. Robb spotted the Imp on the fence near where Torr had sat not long ago, and the kingslayer was standing next to his nephew watching the hound lazily swing his sword about, loosening his arm.

Robb scanned the man, he was definitely big, taller by a few inches than Torr, broad and muscular. Torr was not small himself, nearly of a height with the man, thickly muscled as well, though slightly rangier and leaner than Clegane. Watching as Torr took up a blunted bastard sword, leaving a shield out, Robb tried to make guesses as to compare them. He knew Torrhen was deceptively fast for his size, though slower than Jon, and they had similar reaches, though he would guess the Hound was stronger. Not to mention far more experienced.

Robb sent up a prayer to the old gods as his cousin and the big southron warrior squared off across the yard. _Lend Torrhen your strength, let him win._ Glancing to the side he saw the same nervousness on the faces of Jon and his other siblings. Then Ser Rodrik signaled them to begin and the crowd fell silent.

Torrhen and the Hound circled slowly for a moment before attacking each other. Torr struck first, blade licking out in a feint at the head that turned into a swift chop at the hound's shield arm. The hound ignored the feint, raising his shield to catch the true blow before snarling and launching his own series of strikes. Torrhen dodged or parried all of them, moving quickly and gracefully to stay one step ahead of the Hound's blade. Then knocking aside a particularly heavy blow he swept inside, thrusting for Clegane's knee.

The larger man shifted his leg, dodging the thrust, only for Torr to roll off of him using the Hound's own shield to keep him from striking, and spin around behind the southerner. Clegane spun himself, just in time to block a blow from Torr that would have landed across his shoulder blades. The two men separated for now, both panting lightly and eyeing the other with newfound respect. The crowd was silent as they eyed each other. Until Joffrey spoke, "Finish him dog, beat him bloody!" The disdain was gone from his voice, replaced with anger that his sworn sword had not already won.

Roaring the Hound charged, shield leading and sword held out behind him. Torr went to spin to the right, the Hound's shield side, again only for the Hound's sword to lick out underneath his shield catching Torr across the ribs and staggering him slightly. Robb groaned as his cousin had the breath knocked from him, though he'd managed to spin clear of the Hound for the most part. As the hound turned to continue his assault how ever, Torrhen bull rushed him.

Clegane was caught off guard as he turned, and Torrhen managed to knock him to the ground. Standing over the older man, Torr launched three blows at him. To his credit the Hound blocked two, though the third hit his shoulder and the big man grunted audibly. Still he forced his way to his feet, pushing Torr back. As Clegane straightened Torr launched another series, his final stroke being a backhand which knocked the Hound's blade wide. While doing this Torr released the handle with one hand and belted Clegane across the helmet with his fist. Hitting it hard enough that the helm spun slightly, obscuring the Hound's vision for a moment, long enough for Torrhen to bring his own sword back around and lay it against the other man's neck.

Everyone in the courtyard stared for a moment. Sandor Clegane especially, as soon as he got his helm around so he could see. Then the northmen burst into cheers, Robb managed a glance at Joffrey as the yells erupted. The prince was almost purple with rage and his entire party was silent with disbelief. Across the yard Tyrion Lannister had almost fallen off the fence he was laughing so hard, while Jaime Lannister looked at Torrhen, intrigued.

Clegane and Torrhen where face to face in the midst of the noise, speaking to each other. Torrhen had taken his helm off and Robb saw his cousin's face darken, his victorious smile fading as the Hound said something. Torr's response was lost as well as Robb approached, then the two men separated. Robb clapped Torr on the shoulder as the taller lad panted and Jon looked about ready to hug him as they congratulated him.

Suddenly Robb saw two men striding across the courtyard, the crowd parting before them. The king was in the lead, laughing heartily as he boomed towards Torrhen, "You're Brandon's bastard aren't you? Well fought lad, your father would be proud. Not many that could whip Clegane like a cur." The fat king laughed again, this time so hard his belly shook. Then Robb saw the second man emerging from behind the king's bulk. Father. Torr's smile died as he saw the look on Lord Eddard's face, and Robb could see why, his lord father's usually controlled face was a mask of fury.

 **Author's Note:**

 **So yes, I decided that Torrhen would be good enough to beat the hound in a sparring match, he's that good. But to be honest he partially won cause he fights dirty and because in my mind the Hound had an even bigger hangover than he did. Thanks to those of you who gave input on where to go with this. Also while I'm at it I have a little contest for you all if you're willing: later on Torrhen will receive a nickname (ie the young wolf, the blackfish, the greatjon) and possibly a sigil but as of now I have no good ideas. If anyone who has suggestions wants to PM them to me I'd be willing to set up a vote of what I think are the top ones, and the person who submitted the winning idea can get worked into the story at some point maybe, we'll see. Anyway just an idea, thanks for reading.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Torrhen**

Torrhen sat in the darkness, Harlon curled at his side as he ran his knife along a piece of wood, whittling. The darkness made it almost impossible to see, not the best conditions for whittling but he'd make do. He let his hands feel the shape of the wood as he carved, scarcely thinking as he did so. Instead Torrhen let his mind drift.

Lord Stark was not the kind to yell and scream and threaten, no his rage when he'd found Torrhen after the duel with the Hound had been a cold thing. Torrhen's uncle had veritably dragged him by the ear into his solar. Where he had scolded Torrhen like he was eight, no nearly a man. Lord Stark had ordered Torr to beg the forgiveness of the Prince for daring to call out his sworn shield. Then he had been made to apologize to the Hound himself, afterwards Torrhen had spent the rest of the day scouring armor.

The armor had not been the worst part, nor had the Hounds indifference been that bad. What had made it most painful was the smug look on the faces of Joffrey and his mother when Torr had bowed before them and begged the forgiveness of the prince. That act had made Torr sick to his stomach, and more than anything he'd wanted to stand and belt the prince across the face.

That was why he was here, in the crypts, being here always calmed him. It gave him peace to be here, partially because no one else but him and Lord Stark came here. Sansa had to be dragged here if she was to come and even Arya felt uncomfortable here in the domain of the dead King's of Winter. Torrhen felt none of their fear here, even if he couldn't quiet understand exactly what he felt when in the crypts. All he knew was that looking upon the stone face of his father and sitting among the tombs he was at peace.

Giving the wood another stroke of the knife Torr stood, nudging Harlon awake as he did so. Shaking the feeling needles from his legs Torr headed for the stairs that lead for the surface. If he was lucky none would see him leave, the king had gone hunting earlier, said he wanted a boar for the feast tonight seeing as it was the last night before they left. King Robert had taken Uncle's Benjen and Eddard, the prince, the imp, Ser Rickard, even Robb and Theon.

Torr blinked as he came out into the sunlight, luckily for him nobody was around to see him exit the crypts. Torr grinned and headed for the stables, he hadn't seen to his horse yet today, and with Lord Stark off hunting with the king there was no one to keep him from going for a ride. Inside the stables it was warm and dry despite the light nip in the morning air, Hullen was off to the one end seeing to the horse of one of the knight's who had ridden in with the king. The master of horse paid no mind as Torrhen headed for his own horse's stall. Inside stood Stepper Torr's big gelding, seeing him the horse neighed softly. Torr's smile widened as he petted Stepper's nose and whispered a greeting. Stepper was one of the finest horses in the stable, a gift from his mother when he'd left to foster with the Stark's. The gelding was a muscular chestnut, worthy of a knight, he'd been so proud when he'd first ridden him.

Torrhen eased Stepper out of his stall, stroking the big horse's sides as he saddled him. Stepper was living up to his name, lifting his feet in high steps as he eagerly waited for his opportunity to run. Torr laughed as Harlon ran between Stepper's legs, yipping excitedly. The big horse had gotten used to the direwolf pup since Torrhen had first introduced them, though it had taken some work. Now all the reaction that Harlon elicited was an almost reproachful stare from the horse.

Finishing Torrhen lead Stepper out into the courtyard, he breathed deeply of the crisp air as he swung up into the saddle. The two guardsmen watching the open gate nodded in greeting as he rode out between them. In comparison to the mostly quiet castle Winter's Town was bustling, tradesmen and farmers where all about the market. Some recognized Torr and waved or shouted greetings, Torrhen just smiled and returned their greetings and well wishes. Harlon trotted alongside his horse, many of the townsfolk shying away from the direwolf pup, eyes worried. Horses and oxen where worse, they shied and in one case even reared when they saw Harlon. Dogs where almost as bad, none dared to challenge the young wolf but they all eyed him as a potential challenger and one which they would bring down at a moment's sign of weakness.

Riding through the town didn't take long, yet to Torr it seemed hours. As soon as the edges of town where behind him Torr flicked his reins and dug his heels into Stepper's sides. With a squeal that could have been joy the horse leaped forward, going from a canter to a gallop in moments. Torr whooped as the horse ran, the feel of the wind on his face was exhilarating. Beside him Harlon ran along, tongue lolling as he struggled to keep pace with the horse.

The ride wasn't a long one, Torr had responsibilities back at the castle, specifically armor to finish cleaning. So after an hour or so of riding he turned Stepper for home, his horse seemed disappointed at the idea of going back into the cramped stable. Shaking his head Torr realized he couldn't blame him, he felt that way sometimes too, only his stable was Winterfell. For most of his life Torr had wanted to see the world, but unlike Jon, who was content to see what little of the world there was at the Wall Torr wanted to see all of Westeros. He wanted to ride through the desert's of Dorne, to walk among the thousand heart trees of the isle of faces, he wanted to see the skulls of the dragons, there was so much beyond Winterfell that he wanted to see. Torr didn't want to do it alone though, he wanted to have good friends by his side when he did it, he wanted his cousins, he wanted Robb and Jon to share in his adventures.

Torr shook his head and sighed as he rode back through the gate's. He knew his chances dwindled of seeking adventure in the seven kingdoms alongside his cousins. Robb was to be Lord of Winterfell, a responsibility he took seriously, and Jon was intent on going north to the wall. Torr couldn't fathom why his cousin would want to stand guard on a giant piece of ice for the rest of his life with only men and the cold for company. Unless he'd seriously misjudged his cousin that was. That thought brought a chuckle.

Returning Stepper to the stables Torr promised the gelding another ride tomorrow, Hullen barely sparing him a glance aside from an approving nod when Torr hung his tack back in its place. Then Torr headed for the armory, the armor wouldn't score itself and if he was lucky he'd find Jon there, his friend could keep him company as he worked and maybe spar afterwards. As he walked for the armory he chanced a look up, his eyes caught on a large shape moving along the wall of the ruined tower behind the armory. It took him a moment to realize that the shape was Bran.

Smiling as he watched his little cousin climb, Torrhen's eyes suddenly narrowed when Bran paused for an abnormally long time near the end of the tower, hanging from a gargoyle as if unsure of where to go. _Something's wrong._ The thought whispered through into Torr's head as he started to jog for the base of the tower. When he next looked up Bran was hanging upside down from the next gargoyle, peering into the tower window. Even as Torr drew breath to bellow at the boy to be careful he yelped and fell, narrowly catching a ledge and hanging there from it.

Torr yelled in alarm and his jog broke into a sprint, "Bran hold on!" His bellow tore through the courtyard and across the castle, "I'm coming!". Suddenly an arm emerged from the window and pulled Bran up to safety. Torr reached the foot of the tower and sighed in relief, Bran was safe. Then just as suddenly, the arm shoved Bran from the windowsill, the boy fell, screaming in terror. Torr backpedaled frantically to get underneath his cousin and time seemed to slow. Torr knew there was no way he could stop the boy's fall entirely, he was to heavy, the fall to great.

It did not stop him from trying though, Bran struck him in the chest as he fell, knocking Torrhen to the ground as the momentum of Bran's fall struck him. The force knocked the wind from Torr, "Fuck!" He managed a curse as he went down, Torr fell flat to his back, hearing the muffled crack of bone breaking before his head hit the paving stones and the world went black.

 **Jon**

Jon sat and stared up at the heart wood, wondering if the gods truly had answered his prayers. Bran would live the maester said, he had a nasty gash on his temple where his head had hit the paving stones and both his legs where badly broken, but he'd live, and more importantly to Bran he'd be able to ride and swing a sword again someday. Bran had only woken hours ago, after nearly two days unconscious, and he remembered nothing of the events that had lead to his fall. Though when he thought that nobody was listening Jon had heard him mutter something to himself, something about a raven with three eyes. But Bran was alive, that was what mattered, a fall from that height should have killed him Maester Luwin had said, and would have if Torrhen hadn't caught him and broke his fall enough to deaden the impact.

Torrhen's wounds where not quiet as severe as Bran's Jon had to admit as he watched the heart tree, Ghost silent as ever at his side. His big fool of a cousin had tried catching Bran when he saw him falling, _his big beautiful fool oaf a cousin._ The force of Bran's fall had thrown Torr to his back, knocking him unconscious as well when his head hit the paving stones, it had also broken his arm, left an ugly purple bruise along the back of his head and given him a large cut along his jaw. Torr had woken hours later, and though he remembered what happened he'd seen little.

When Torr had told father of the arm that pushed Bran Lord Eddard had personally led a group of guards to investigate the tower, they'd found no traces of whoever had pushed Bran, only a dusty and disused room. Yet Torrhen had been adamant about what saw, and father believed him. Someone had tried to kill Bran.

Jon's face twisted in anger, and he shoved himself off the ground and to his feet. Upon hearing Torrhen's accusations Lord Stark had set guard's to the rooms in which both Torr and Bran slept. Then he'd told the king. To which King Robert had merely shrugged and asked if he had any evidence as to who had done the deed. Lord Stark had pointed the blame at a member of the King's party, a man, pale skinned by Torrhen's description. King Robert had merely snorted and asked if Eddard would like him to have all of the nearly two hundred men who matched that description executed.

That thought, of the king's indifference had made Jon angry enough to beat one of the King's squires nearly half unconscious in a sparring match. Once his anger had cooled though Jon realized the truth of the king's words, they had no way of finding who had tried to kill Bran. Father had understood the King's reasoning as well, and solemn had withdrawn to Bran's side. Then the morning before Bran woke he had declared that he would still be heading south to be hand of the king for Robert.

That same day he had pulled Jon aside and given him permission to go north to the Night's Watch. Jon didn't even have to ask to see Lady Catelyn's hand behind it, she wanted him gone, no doubt it Torrhen had not saved her son's life and was fit to travel she would have ordered him gone as well. Despite the gravity of the situation and Bran's condition Jon was excited to leave for the Wall. Though to be honest he was sad as well. He knew he would never see his family again, Lord Stark left in the morning with Arya and Sansa, and Uncle Benjen would take Jon north as soon as they left.

Jon shook his head, he had things to do before all this happened, goodbyes to say, gifts to give. His hand drifted to the small bundle at his belt, the sword he'd had Mikken craft for Arya, and he smiled slightly. He couldn't do that if he was moping about. His first stop was Torr's room, he hadn't yet spoken to his cousin after he had woken and needed to see him before he left tomorrow.

Torr had been given a chamber that while comfortable and well appointed, was far from Lady Catelyn's own chambers, and those of her trueborn children. The guard at the door nodded to Jon when he approached and let him through the door without a word. Jon's cousin was sitting up in bed, a knife spinning in one hand as he stared at a wooden plank that he'd hung across the room. Jon smiled, Torr had hung that plank there years ago, back when he was determined to learn to throw axes and knives. He never had learned to throw knives, though Torr had gotten axes down somewhat, now it looked like he was considering trying to learn again.

Torrhen looked up at the sound of the door, his usual infectious grin coming to life as he saw Jon. Slamming the knife into a table beside his bed Torr turned, the sling and splint holding his left arm still coming into view as he did so. Jon grimaced, a look that Torrhen caught. The larger man chuckled, "Don't worry Jon, it isn't my sword arm. Means I can still whip you in the yard."

Jon couldn't help but chuckle slightly, "Glad to see you're well enough to jest, though I suppose with a skull as thick as yours it takes a bit more to keep you down." Jon turned serious, "How are you Torr?"

Torrhen's response was a shrug as he swung his legs around, "Been better, been worse...I hear you're leaving for the wall tomorrow. Have to say I don't envy you."

Jon smiled, "Never expected you to Torr, I never thought you'd follow me to the Night's Watch, even if you would be welcome, to much of the wolfsblood in you as father says."

This time Torr's response was bitter, "Thought I could at least talk you out of it though. I guess I was wrong." Jon put a conciliatory hand on Torrhen's shoulder, and his cousin winced slightly even though it Jon's hand rested on his unbroken side. Torr gave a slightly tight grin that didn't reach his eyes, "Got a pretty bruise on my back, Maester says that I'm lucky I only broke my arm."

Jon smiled at that then shook his head, "Your are lucky, lucky you weren't hurt worse and lucky that you even managed to slow Bran enough to make a difference." He paused for the barest heart beat, "I know it won't help much, but write to me at the wall, tell me of your adventures, let me share in them that way at least."

Torr looked at him like he was mad for a moment, then burst into laughter. "You almost sound like your father when you say that you know?"

Jon laughed as well, glad that his cousin was acting more of himself and less moody. The two young men joked and told stories for another hour before Jon arose and said his final goodbyes, embracing his cousin as best he could without hurting him before leaving to say goodbye to others. As Jon walked he had a strange feeling that this would be the last time he would see his cousin for a very long time.

 **Torrhen**

Torr sighed, it had been three days since the King's party left taking Lord Stark and a large part of his household in tow, with Jon and the rest of the Night's Watch brothers leaving mere hours afterwards. Three days of boredom, Maester Luwin refused to allow him to do any form of sparring or riding with his broken arm, and with most of the guards gone he had nobody to talk too little to do. Ser Rodrick was busy training new recruits as guardsmen, Robb was acting Lord of Winterfell and had no time to spare, Bran was still bedridden, Lady Catelyn might have been free but Torrhen wasn't desperate enough to try speaking with her yet.

Torr set the knife in his hand to spinning as he thought, the one thing that Maester Luwin had thought within his capabilities it seemed was practicing his throwing, knives and hand axes. So for the last few days he'd been here, in the godswood, practicing with a rotten tree for a target Lord Eddard had found the place peaceful, and Torr could see why. The thick forest let through a dapple of sunlight even this late in the day and the birds singing in the trees made his cares seem to melt away. _Thunk_. Torr smiled as he hurled his knife and watched it slam into the target.

He was just now beginning to get the throwing knives down, axes where easier, more balanced for the spin. Turning he picked up another knife from the small pile on the stump next to him, wincing slightly as his broken arm shifted in its splint. Harlon looked up from his place at the foot of the old oak stump, whining slightly in concern. Suddenly shouts started to come through the trees, and the godswood seemed to be a little brighter. Looking through the trees Torrhen could vaguely see the rookery, and more importantly the flames coiling from its roof.

Almost instinctively he took a step towards the fire, stopping himself after a moment as he realized that with his arm he'd be almost useless in helping douse the flames. Growing angry Torr turned and stalked towards the target log, grumbling to himself as he itched absently at his splinted arm. Behind him he heard the rustle of feet in the leaves that covered the ground here in the godswood, he didn't really pay that much attention to it until Harlon growled.

Torr turned slowly, he was abreast with the target now and had one of the knives free and in his hand. From the trees two shadows emerged, two rough looking men clad in boiled leather stepped into the sunlight. Torr instantly frowned, neither of the two men where familiar to him, and he knew every guardsman or servant in Winterfell by name. Torr's eyes flicked down and he saw the bared steel in the men's hands, then back up to their eyes. The two men stared back at him grimly as they advanced, Torr nodded, his anger growing as his hand tightened around the throwing knife. "Here to kill me are you?"

Neither man said a word as they split, one circling left near the oak stump where the rest of his throwing knives and his sword rested, the other circling left. Both men looked to be hard, with plenty of scars between them. The one circling right was of middling height, though stocky, wielding a longsword in one hand and a fine looking dagger in the other. The other man was older, leaner, holding a wicked looking mace with a spiked head.

Torr just shook his head when they refused to speak, then fast as lightning his hand came up and flicked out, the knife soared across the clearing and slammed into the larger sellsword's shoulder, the man stumbled back with a howl. Only for that howl to turn into a scream as Harlon darted from his place at the base of the stump to bite into the man's calf. Torrhen cursed at the hit, he'd been aiming for the throat. Ignoring the grating of bone on bone in his arm, Torr launched himself at the now wounded man. His good hand reaching out and punching the man across the jaw. As the sellsword stumbled back in shock and pain, his friend charged, mace swinging wildly.

Torr ducked underneath the mace just in time, dancing out of the way to grab his sword and clumsily free it from it sheath. The two assassins looked slightly more tentative now that he had a weapon in hand, as they looked at each other for guidance Torr remembered the words that Ser Rodrick had drilled into his head in the training yard over the years, _when you're fighting more than one man don't let them think it over, they'll work together then and you're dead, attack and keep them off balance._ Snarling Torr took the advice and charged, the mace wielder stumbled back in surprise, clearly not expecting a boy with a broken arm to rush two armed men. Torr's first blow was dodged, if narrowly, and the second was deflected wide with the mace.

Torr faintly heard a yelp off to the side and the bigger sellsword's cursing stopped, meaning he was free of Harlon. Torr resisted the urge to look to his wolf, instead hammering another overhand blow into his foe, he had to finish the man quickly or risk being surrounded. As the old man's mace went up to block the blow Torr flicked his sword to the side, turning the overhand into a horizontal slash at the man's ribs. The sellsword tried to get his mace around to block but was to late, Torrhen's sword buried itself just below his ribs, catching lung's and kidneys. The man coughed blood and stumbled backward, face contorted in a silent scream.

Torrhen tried not to think of the fact that he'd just killed his first man, instead dodging to the side as he spun, facing the larger man now. The mercenary was still a few paces away, advancing cautiously now that his friend was dead. Torr could see Harlon in the grass behind the man, shaking his head dazedly. The man was nearly Torr's equal in build, if significantly shorter, and was limping slightly, blood streaming from his shoulder and the back of his calf. But he still held his sword and dagger at the ready.

Torr's gaze lifted to his foes face, and as he caught sight of the man's eyes he couldn't help but chuckle, a chuckle that grew into a roaring laugh, the man was afraid. A grown man, armed and armored, was afraid of him, Torr's laughter only grew louder. The man's fear was replaced by anger at the sound of the laughter, and bellowing like an angry bull he charged. Torr's laughter continued as he ducked to the side around the sellsword's slash, bringing his own sword around in a vicious counter stroke that took the other man's sword arm off at the elbow. The sellsword's bellow turned into a scream as he fell to his knees, dropping his dagger and clutching at the ruined stump of his arm.

Torr panted for a moment, his laughter subsiding. His arm hurt like it was newly broken all over again, and as he watched the now sobbing sellsword he felt the burning on his right arm, the man's strike had landed after all, and a thin, shallow gash now adorned his right leg. Torr straightened, clutching his sword tightly in his hand as the sellsword scrambled away from him clumsily on hands and knees, _hand_ and knees Torr corrected himself.

The wounded man was begging mercy as he tried to escape, though it fell on deaf ears. Torr felt the rage rush through him as he walked steadily after the man. They'd tried to kill him, for who and for what reason he didn't know, but they'd tried to kill him, and he had no doubt they would have tried for Bran next. The man's sobbed pleas hardly seemed like words as Torrhen advanced, sword at the ready. By the time Torrhen reached him the man had stopped even trying to flee, and merely stared at him, tears streaming down his face.

Torr's blade rose and fell without either saying another word, and once the man's head was separated from his body Torr tossed the weapon aside. He strode back to the old stump, where Harlon now waited patiently, the pup stared up at him with a face full of understanding as Torr sank to sit upon the stump, staring at the bodies of the two men. Slowly he turned away and looked up at the trees once more, now with the birdsong gone, he could truly see why Lord Eddard had come here for peace. Slowly his hand drifted down to Harlon's back as he began to chuckle at the absurdity of it all, of being raised a bastard in Winterfell, of these men dying to kill him for gods only knew what reason, of Jon's departure, it all struck him at once and he couldn't help but laugh.

That was how the guardsmen found him, splattered with blood and chuckling to himself as he stroked his direwolf and stared at the bodies of the two men he had slain. Tears streaming down his face even as he laughed.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took longer than the other's, rewrote it four times trying to get it right. I had a hard time writing the scene in the godswood and deciding about Bran, yes I'm a bit of a softy when it comes to him being crippled, but hey I have my reasons. Also doesn't help that I spent a few days waiting for my editor to catch up to look at this before deciding to post it without him. Ironically enough the editor is my friend who Torrhen is loosely based off of. Anyways, thanks for hanging in if you've read this far. My little nickname contest for Torrhen is still up, only have three suggestions so far, The Black Wolf (Guest and BornSinner01), The Laughing Wolf (My new editor), and Northfury (godfate). Realize it's a little early in the story for the nickname to be decided but thanks for those who put in ideas so far, even if I am still accepting more. As always hope you enjoyed the story and I'll have more soon.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Once again to those of you who care, apologies for the wait, this is the first chapter where I really divulge from GRR Martin's canon and into my own area and characters. Hope you all enjoy this turning point, as always comments and criticisms are always helpful and appreciated. As are questions. Please enjoy.**

 **Robb**

Robb stared across the table at his cousin, Torr was drinking a horn of mead as he flirted with a serving girl. It had been a fortnight since the assassins, a hard fortnight for Torrhen. At first he'd merely cried and laughed, an odd combination in Robb's mind. The men who'd tried to kill him had not been alone, a third had entered into Bran's room while the boy slept under the cover of the burning rookery. The killer had almost put a knife through Bran's throat as he slept, being stopped only by the intervention of Bran's direwolf. A wolf that Bran had finally found a name for, Summer.

One of the men who'd come for Torrhen had carried a valyrian steel dagger, a fine thing with a dragonbone handle. Upon seeing it Lady Catelyn had immediately declared one of the King's party a murderer and headed south to warn Robb's father and if possible find who had sent the assassins. When Robb's lady mother had stated her intent to do so it had been Torr who was the first to stand to offer his blade to guard her. Torr's arm had still been in a cast when he said this, and more than one man in the Great Hall had snickered. Robb himself had even been prepared to stand and dispute Torrhen's offer, especially when he saw the hatred in his mother's eyes. She'd declared she had no need of bastard's blades, instead declaring that Ser Rodrick alone would accompany her south.

Robb was just grateful that she waited until she was alone with the Torrhen and himself before unleashing the tirade he'd seen building. She'd raved about how the assassin's where meant for only him and how he'd endangered her son with his foolishness. Robb had nearly yelled at her upon hearing her insult his cousin and his friend. Torrhen had not said a word in his own defense however. Upon lady Stark's departure his mood improved thankfully. Within the better part of the fortnight his arm was healed enough to begin training again, and Torrhen had gone back to chasing the serving girls and beating Robb with a sword. Even if Maester Luwin had insisted that he keep it to a minimum.

When Tyrion Lannister had passed through Winterfell returning south Torr's arm had still been in its cast, and sullen as his cousin had been Robb had still been surprised when Torr had passed up the chance to face the Imp. Tyrion had defused Robb's distrust fairly easily though when he'd gifted Bran a saddle design to allow the boy to ride in the months while his legs healed. But now almost a week after the dwarf's departure Robb sensed something off in his cousin still.

True on the surface Torr was the same, joking, fighting and laughing. But there was something different about him now, not as if his heart was hardened as Robb would have expected after killing his first man, which was what he had thought to be the case when his cousin was sullen. Not even the brooding and sense that he didn't belong that Robb had seen in Jon. No it almost seemed as if Torr had found a new, even greater sense of wanderlust and desire for adventure since that night in the grove.

Robb thought of all this as he stared at his cousin across the table, stroking the rather wispy beard he'd been growing lately. He barely said a word at dinner, wondering what this might mean for his cousin. It wasn't until afterwards that he received his answer, the servants had finished clearing the food away and Robb was rising to leave for his chambers when Torr spoke to him for the first time that night.

"Lord Stark." Immediately Robb had grown weary, Torr never called him Lord Stark, no matter how insistent Luwin was that it was the proper etiquette. Every other head at the table, namely Bran, Rickon, and Maester Luwin, had snapped around at that. They all looked as confused as Hodor in that moment. Torr carried on, eyes never leaving Robb as he spoke without waiting for a reply. "My lord, I request permission to leave your service and Winterfell."

Silence reigned then as everyone tried to comprehend what had just been said. Then Bran and Rickon both started speaking at once, both begging Torr not to leave. By the time Luwin had quieted them Robb had his wits about him once more. "Torr, speak plain. Why?"

The bigger lad shrugged, eyes going up to the rafters as if he was thinking, "I want to see the world Robb. I've known that for a long time, but now's my chance. Your mother hates me cousin, you have to realize that. As long as I'm here she'll make my life a living version of her seven hells, and she will come home eventually." Torr grinned as he brought his eyes back to Robb. "Besides, I hear that Lord Manderly is having a tourney down in White Harbor next month, figure I might go see my mother and try my hand at the melee."

Robb shook his head, "Torr I need you here, father's gone, Jon's gone. How am I going to rule the north without any of you? I need help."

Torr's grin didn't even waiver, "I'd say you have Theon but that'd be like saying a bird has a boulder that will keep it aloft. Listen Robb, you have men around you who can and will help you, I'm not one of them. I need to go, I need to find my place out there. Yours is here in Winterfell, mine isn't" For another hour Robb tried talking Torr out of his idea to leave, Theon, Rickon, Bran, even Maester Luwin, they all tried. But Torr was determined, he would leave Winterfell.

That was how they found themselves in the courtyard less than a week later, all of them wishing him well. Rickon was bawling as he clung to his cousin's leg, heart breaking at the thought of someone else leaving him. Bran had presented Torr with a cloak, a thing made of thick tawny wolf fur, with a sigil sewn into it, a black direwolf's head with red eyes and bloody fangs.

At Torr's questioning look Bran smiled, "Ryswell colors and the direwolf, Jon suggested it, thought it might suit you. I had the seamstress start on it after I woke up." There where tears in Torr's eyes for a moment as he swept Bran up in a hug, being careful not to hurt the boy's still injured leg. Theon had clasped arms with Torr and grinned arrogantly, "Tell the poor lasses down in White Harbor not to fear, you aren't the best Winterfell has to offer." Then he'd clapped Torr upon the back and handed him a plain hunting horn with a slightly more strained smile.

Torr smiled back, "Should I let them know that the mighty hunter remains at home and that their precious virtue is safe?" Theon had chuckled and turned aside, leaving Robb to meet him.

Robb had stared at his cousin for a moment before handing him two gifts, smiling slightly. "Father was planning on giving you this for your next name day, thought you might want it now." Torr had stared at the bastard sword in his hands for a moment, speechless. He'd had his own sword before it was true, but never one like this. Mikken had obviously poured much into the sword. The blade was finely forged, slightly longer than most bastard swords to take further advantage of Torr's height and strength, with a heavy blade that could hack through mail or leather. The hilt was plain, wrapped in fresh leather, and set into the hilt was a heavy iron spike styled to look like the over sized fang of a direwolf, it was obviously meant for more than just decoration, looking as if it where meant to punch through steel itself.

When Torr swung the blade to test it the sword's balance was fine enough that it almost seemed to be weightless. He grinned like a child as he removed his old arming sword from his belt and shrugged the bastard sword into his baldric so it hung across his back, the hilt peaking over his right shoulder. Robb's second gift was a hefty pouch, taking it Torr could feel the clink of silver and instantly reached to give it back, opening his mouth to protest.

Robb just shook his head, "Take it, you'll only get so much off hospitality and kindness and I'd rather not receive word that my cousin starved on the way to White Harbor. Besides maybe you can use it in when you get there to buy yourself some better armor."

Torr looked down at his battered mail and leathers, with the light steel on his arms and legs and his plain helm. Robb grinned, at his cousins obvious offense, hoping he wouldn't realize how much of the purse was actually gold until he was far off. They clasped arms and shared a warm embrace before Torr mounted Stepper.

From atop his horse Torr surveyed the courtyard, many of the castle inhabitants had turned out to watch him leave. At Stepper's hooves Harlon sat quietly, ready to leave. Raising his hand in farewell he spun and left the gates at a slow walk. Robb waved him farewell as Rickon cried, wondering when he'd see his friend again.

 **Torr**

When the gate's of the walled city of White Harbor came into sight Torr smiled. True the city stank of fish and the gulls screeching filled the air but it was still an impressive sight. Two castles rose above the throng of houses and shops. On one side of the city was the Wolf's Den, abandoned castle of the Greystark's. A cadet branch of the Stark's annihilated for rising against their lords hundreds of years ago. On the other side was the New Castle, home of the Manderly's. There he knew his mother resided, Torr's smile stiffened at the thought of his mother. They'd written each other over the years of his fostering at Winterfell. He knew that she was content with her husband Wendell and had born him a son and a daughter since their marriage. In fact from what Torr had heard the tourney was to celebrate the birth of a second grandson for Lord Manderly.

The guards at the gate showed little interest in him, merely looking at him with bored eyes before waving him through. One of them, a lad younger than Torr, perked up slightly when he mentioned that he was going to fight in the tourney. The young guard had told him to give his name to the master-at-arms, pointing down the street. Riding slowly through the crowds Torr looked about him, the people here seemed content, though they seemed different than most northmen, something of the way they carried themselves spoke of the southerners that had ridden with the king.

The Manderly master-at-arms wasn't very difficult to find as Torr reached the square that he'd been pointed to. A large table was set up at the west end of the small square, with half a dozen guardsmen in the mermaid livery of the Manderly's standing at attention around a lean man with a ragged beard and large hands. A small line was before the man at the table, roughly three dozen knights, lord's sons and free riders. Even looking them over as he approached Torr could tell they where not exactly the cream of the crop. Most of the great knights and warriors of the realm would be in the south at King's Landing for the tourney being held in honor of Lord Stark.

\ Still Torr thought as he handed Stepper off to a stable boy for a nearby inn, there where some in the crowd worth watching. Near the front was a monster of a man, over seven feet tall and heavy with thick corded muscle. With the man's back to him Torr couldn't tell who he was, though if he where to hazard a guess he'd say an Umber judging by his size and the monstrous longaxe on his back. Further back was one of the few armored knights in the group, a tall man, though not much above middling height, lean, with short black hair. Emblazoned upon the man's chest was a sigil of a brown bear with a bloody spear lodged in its chest and a warhammer in its paws.

Few others in the line looked as dangerous as those two, yet Torr saw Mountain Clansmen, White Harbor Knights, and even one man wearing what looked at first glance to be Reed colors. The line moved quickly and it wasn't long before Torr stood before the bored looking master-at-arms. The older man looked him up and down, raising an eyebrow at the sigil on the cloak Bran had given him. Then the man just shook his head and raised his quill, "Name?"

"Torrhen Snow." The man looked up again at that, eyes darting about as he tried to place Torr's name. When he did the knight's face darkened, obviously connecting the name with Lady Barbrey's bastard son.

Eyes now locked to Torr's face the man almost spat the next question, "Will you be jousting S _er?_ Or will you be participating in one of the other events?"

Torr met the man's eyes as levelly as he could, thought the handful of other tourney contestants still around could obviously sense the tension. "The joust, and the melee my lord."

The knight's gaze drifted to Torr's armor, obviously questioning his sanity slightly. Still the man scratched out something on his parchment before nodding. "Joust will be in three days time, the melee two after that. Winner of the each event receives a prize of five hundred gold dragons. Second place receives two hundred, and third place contender receives one hundred. The top three competitor's for each event will also be invited to a feast in the Merman's Court the day the tourney ends." Speech finished the knight waved Torr to the side, muttering about bastard's under his breath as the next competitor approached.

Shaking his head at the man's tone Torr turned and headed for the inn that had taken his horse, eyes catching on the sign hanging above the door, the Siren's Rest. Inside it seemed obvious that many of the men seeking to fight in the tourney had chosen this inn as well. The Umber man Torr had seen in the courtyard was across the room, speaking quietly with a burly man wearing a sigil of a broken sword , a young squire at the knight's side. Torr recognized the squire in a heartbeat, Martyn Cassel one of Lord Jory Cassels sons, he was a scant two years younger than Torr and had been raised at Winterfell for three years by his uncle Rodrick, along with his twin brother Rickard. Torr took a quick moment to speak to the innkeeper, spending a small handful of silver for a room for him and Harlon to sleep in for the night.

Several patrons, seeing Harlon, looked at him nervously, one man even standing and leaving at the sight of the direwolf, his steps hurried and fearful. Paying for an ale Torr wove his way through the crowd toward Martyn and his companions. Earning more than one curious gaze for the sigil on his cloak and the wolf at his side. Not to mention the occasional, more appreciative glances from the few women in the room.

The Umber was the first to spot his approach, and the big man locked eyes with Torr, giving only the barest of nods to his companions to signal the nearing stranger. Looking closer Torr realized that despite the Umber man's hulking size he was young, from the look of him likely no older than Torr himself. His face had a hint of boyish fat to it still that was at odds with his muscular frame, and his short beard was admitably rather wispy. The burly knight looked over his shoulder and frowned at Torr, this man was obviously older though not, and from the look of him a hardened fighter. His red hair was short for a helm, and poorly cut in such a way that implied a disdain for fashion, a long scar ran down one side of his face, and his green eyes where suspicious to say the least.

Martyn was the last to turn, the young man shooting to his feet as he spotted Torr, he veritably charged him, sweeping Torr up in a warm embrace. "Torr you big fucker! Here for the tournament I take it?" Martyn was obviously excited, and Torr couldn't help but laugh at the lean lads enthusiasm.

"Aye Mart I am, you know I never could resist an adventure. Who are your friends here?" Torr jerked his head at the still seated men. The young knight's face was still somber, though the suspicion in his eyes was lessening. Meanwhile the Umber was smiling slightly at the spectacle as he sipped at his own tankard.

Martyn almost tripped over himself in his hast to make introductions, it turned out that the knight was Ser Oswin Brant, a landed knight from the barrow lands and the man whom Martyn was squiring for. The giant young man was an Umber as Torr had guessed, Hoarfrost Umber the third son of Greatjon Umber. Both man greeted Torr politely, and when he sat they where eager to include him in their conversation. They where discussing the tourney, in which both where competing, though Hoarfrost, of just Frost as he preferred, was only taking place in the melee.

So they found themselves passing the time, drinking, sharing stories and laughing as the night wore on. Torr found that he liked both men, Oswin was serious, though well traveled, and with a wry sense of humor when it suited him, while Frost was quiet, unusually so given his father's widespread reputation, he didn't speak often and when he did it was said with a carefulness that made him seem dull witted, though Torr had a feeling that wasn't true.

It was nearly the hour of the wolf before the three men went to sleep, Martyn having already fallen into a drunken sleep nearly an hour before. They ended the night with promises to speak again in the morning and plans to have Torr spar with them both after he'd shared his tale of the defeat of the hound while halfway through his fourth ale. Oswin had even offered to show him to an armorer in town who might be able to get Torr some decent equipment before the joust. Then they'd all stumbled off to their beds and collapsed.

 **Torrhen**

Torr woke and stared at the ceiling of his room, groaning at the pounding in his head and the bright light. As he groaned Harlon crawled onto his chest, causing him to groan even louder. The young direwolf cocked his head as he looked curiously at his master, the began licking Torr's face. Torr spluttered and tried not to laugh as he struggled to push his wolf off his chest. Harlon fought back playfully, nipping and growling before Torr finally got the pup off him. Running his hand through the stubble that he'd allowed to grow during his journey Torr stood, grunting as he stretched and looked about his room for his clothes.

After a moment's search Torr came up with a pair of plain woolen breeches and a simaler shirt, over which he slipped a sturdy leather jerkin. Finishing lacing the jerkin he ran his thumb across his sigil sown onto the breast, the black wolf with bloody fangs and red eyes. He'd stopped at a village along his trip and had given a seamstress two silver stags to sew the mark onto several of his shirts. Snapping out of it Torr sat upon the narrow bed, and ignoring Harlon's yips and growls as the pup ran around with his sword belt in its mouth, began slipping on his boots. Torr had just stood to begin chasing Harlon for his belt when a heavy knock came at the door.

Harlon glanced at the source of the noise, giving Torr a split second to grab the sword belt and begin donning it as he went to open the door. Meanwhile his pup just looked for a moment before crawling back underneath his bed and curling up to sleep. When Torr opened the door he was greeted with a massive frame, slightly hunched to accommodate the low ceilings of the inn's upper floor. Torr grinned at the sight of Hoarfrost.

The giant man shifted uneasily, "See that I owe Martyn as stag, thought all that ale would have left you asleep for another few candle marks." Shaking his head Frost smiled sheepishly, "Since you're up and awake figured I'd take you up on that sparring match you offered last night."

Torr frowned slightly, he remembered saying he'd spar with Frost, but to be honest he wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. One good blow from the man would break bones. Nonetheless Torr nodded,"Just a few moments m'lord Umber, I'll need to find my armor and clear my head."

Hoarfrost nodded almost giddily and made his way down the hall to the stairs, "I'll be in the back courtyard!" He shouted the last bit over his shoulder, the volume living up to his family's reputation. Sighing Torr reentered his room, eyeing the armor he'd taken off in his stupor last night and left scattered about the room. Then starting to whistle a tune he began putting on his armor for the sparring match, sliding his arming coat and mail on over his jerkin, then strapping the heavier Armour on his limbs, a familiar set of motions to him.

By the time he reached the courtyard behind the inn Hoarfrost, Ser Oswin, and Martyn where already in the courtyard, Hoarfrost swinging a blunted tourney sword about to loosen his arms. Torr noted with interest that the Umber lordling was even more lightly armored than himself, with boiled leather over his mail. Oswin was in full armor as well, but unlike Torr and Hoarfrost he wore full plate, unusual for a barrow knight, they usually wore mail and furs instead of the bulkier and more expensive southern plate.

The knight chuckled as he caught Torr's scrutiny, "If Frost doesn't break you I plan to have a go at you too." The grin that Hoarfrost gave at those word said volumes about his plans for Torr's chances of sparring with the older man. Nodding to Torr the Umber lad gestured to Martyn, who held out a blunted tourney sword of his own. Grasping it Torr tested the balance, a little light for his tastes, and not as long as he was used to, but the blade would do.

Hoarfrost raised his own blade into a guard, two hands on the hilt. "We'll go until one of us yields. Or until one can't carry on, Martyn and Oswin will judge." Torr nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he thought it over, until surrender meant that the Hoarfrost was at least smart enough to realize that Torr was faster and could win a duel by points more easily. Then Torr realized another thing, Hoarfrost wasn't going to wear a helm. Sliding his own heavy helmet on Torr wondered why the bigger lad would risk himself like that.

Helm secured Torr drew up into his own guard and shot a quick nod to Oswin. The knight raised a hand and then dropped it in a smooth motion, "Begin!"

Steel rang almost instantly as Hoarfrost launched a heavy overhead blow, one which Torr parried fairly easily. Still the giant young man moved much faster than his size would indicate as he hammered a swift combination at Torr. Torr flowed like silk to avoid or parry the blows, keeping one step ahead of Hoarfrost as he got a feel for his opponent's style. After a moment the two began circling, the exchange of blows had left Hoarfrost panting slightly as he eyed Torr. Torr just smiled then launched into his own assault, a horizontal cut followed by a thrust and then a lightning reversal towards his enemy's knee. Umber caught the horizontal and narrowly dodged the thrust, sending under his arm and out of harms way, then he clamped his free arm down tightly to his side, trapping Torr's blade as he lifted his own for a strike. Growling Torr released his sword with one hand, reaching up to grab Hoarfrost's wrist with his hand and stop the blow from descending.

Hoarfrost merely grinned and began to force his arm back with his leverage and monstrous strength. Torr grunted and groaned as he strained to hold the sword back, he was not a weak man by any means, most would call him quiet strong in fact, but the Umber man was just that strong. Finally with his arm buckling Torr did the only thing that came to mind, and slammed his helmeted head into the taller man's jaw. Hoarfrost stumbled back, spitting blood as he tried to regain his balance. But now Torr had the advantage, without a word he launched himself at Hoarfrost, sword feinting high before sweeping low and into Hoarfrost's knee. He buckled and went to one knee, sword rising to block a blow that would have taken him in the shoulder.

Torr snarled and kept up his assault, slashing twice at his kneeling friend before twisting his sword in a move Ser Rodrick had taught him to send Hoarfrost's sword skittering across the yard. Torr swept his blade back around and laid it aside Hoarfrost's neck, staring the other man in the eye with a gentle smile. "Surrender Frost?"

The big Umber laughed and nodded, "Fine sword work Snow, you might just win the melee here!" Off to the side Oswin nodded in agreement, eyes filled with newfound respect for Torr and his swordsmanship.

As Torr helped Hoarfrost to his feet with a grunt, Oswin stepped forward, collecting Hoarfrost's fallen blade as he did so. "Fancy a go at me Torr? Think I can give you a better go that this big lump of lard."

Torr and Hoarfrost both chuckled at that, though Torr managed to beg off an immediate sparring match with Oswin, stating he needed a time to rest. In the mean time Oswin agreed to show Torr to the armorer he'd mentioned the night before. After a brief moment to grab some food with which to break their fast from the kitchen of the inn the three men and Martyn made their way into the city to seek the armorer.

Along the way they told more tales and jokes boasting of their homes and families to the others in a less drunken manner than before, by the time they reached the armorer's shop the four men where laughing easily, even reserved Oswin. Recognizing three lordlings the owner of the smithy came out to greet them himself, he was a stout man with white hair and a shaggy beard scorched by sparks.

"Greetings m'lords and welcome to my forge. If its arms and armor you're looking for you've come to the right place. You'll find no better anywhere north of the neck!" The smith was cheerful to say the least and Torr instantly spoke up.

"Good morning friend, its true, I am in need of some new armor for the tourney. As well as a shield and perhaps a helm." The armorer frowned at Torr's words however.

"Apologies m'lord but the tourney is but two days away, I may be able to craft a helm or shield in that time, but a full suit of armor? I would need weeks or months to complete that." Glancing around the elderly smith shrugged, "Mayhaps you'll find something that fits inside but i'm afraid that I can make no guarantees."

Torr nodded and went to skim the arms and armor that was on display, Hoarfrost looked on hopelessly, never having worn plate before, or even the bits of plate that Torr usually wore. After struggling through the armor racks for a several minutes the smith came back to Torr and Oswin. Eying Torr carefully for a moment before speaking again, "You seek only a breastplate m'lord?" At Torr's nod the armorer darted back into his shop and returned with a plain gray breastplate "It's not beautiful m'lord, and that alone pains me, but it his strong, and if you wish I may ornament it with your crest before the tourney"

Torr inspected the breastplate for a moment before nodding, "Aye it shall work good man, leave it plain if you must, though if you have time I'll pay well for you to add my crest to it. Though I'd prefer a helmet first."

The smith nodded and drew a quill and parchment from behind his counter, recording Torr's request for a shield with his sigil and for the decoration of the breastplate. As well the measurements to adjust the helm and breastplate too. In all it was nearly midday before they left the armorer's with Torr having left behind a substantial amount of silver behind to incite the blacksmith to work faster.

Finally done Hoarfrost rubbed his stomach as it rumbled, "I'm not sure of you two, but I'm starving, lets find some food." Without waiting for an answer the Umber turned and marched off, and after a moment Torr and Oswin followed, Marytn trailing behind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Torrhen**

Torr rolled his shoulder's as he tried to get a feel for his new breastplate and shield, the smith's work was good he could see that, though in all honesty he was used to fighting without a shield either wielding his bastard sword two handed or using his off hand to punch and trick. Wearing the shield felt wrong to him. Still Oswin and Hoafrost said he had to wear it for the joust, which made sense Torr supposed, but he still didn't like the heavy thing pulling at his arm. Being honest Torr was never even that good at jousting, oh he could hold his own against most of Winterfell's guardsmen, but Jon, Robb and even the guardsman Alyn where all better than him with a lance and had knocked him into the dirt many a time.

The only reason he'd even considered jousting in the tourney was because it was so small, though he was still liable to lose. Hoarfrost and Martyn had both seemed fairly certain that Oswin would be the winner today, claiming the big barrow knight was amongst the most experienced warrior present, and that most of the fighters here where little more than boys. Hoarfrost had chosen to forgo the joust all together for favor of the melee, which was shaping up to be a much more interesting fight by the looks of it, Lord Wendell Manderly had elected to participate, as well as half a dozen veteran White Harbor knights who'd dismissed the joust as child's play.

Torr's mind drifted back to his duel with Oswin two days prior, after their trip to the armorer's shop. The older man was strong, and surprisingly agile, and had been a tougher opponent than Hoarfrost as he relied less on speed and strength and more on skill. The sparring match had ground on for five long minutes before Torr had finally managed to land a stinging blow on the barrow knight's wrist, disarming him. If Oswin jousting was as good as his swordwork than every man on the tilt should be worried.

Suddenly a war horn sounded out near the lists, the signal that the first joust of the day was about to begin. Torr could vaguely hear the sound of the names of the competitor's being announced, but he ignored it, his match was third of the day, against some lad from a minor house sworn to Karhold, Gareth Stonemont or something of the like. Then Oswin was not long after him, against a more stout opponent, a young knight from Sisterton named Thelman Crane.

The wait was only for a moment but to Torr it felt like an hour as he waited for the first to jousts to end, when the cheer that signaled the first joust's finish arouse he stepped out of his stuffy tent and mounted Stepper. By the time the cheer for the second joust arose he was in position. He accepted a nod from Martyn, who had kindly volunteered to squire for him here, then moved to his spot on the list, nodding to Lord Manderly as he heard his name announced to the crowd, "Torrhen Snow of the Rills!"

As his name spread across the crowd Torr saw a handful of people sit up, Ser Wendell Manderly, previously engaged in a vicious battle with a plate of pastries, looked up in some slight recognition at the name, as did his father and a handful of Manderly knights and retainers. The only person whom Torr had eyes for though was the one sitting stiffly to Wendell Manderly's left however. A tall, handsome woman entering into her middle years, his mother, Barbrey Manderly. Sitting next to the woman where two young children a boy and a girl. The girl had her father's plumpness though the boy looked more like a Ryswell, broad shouldered and stern, even at six. Behind Barbrey stood a young woman with a babe in her arms, her youngest son, the lad who's birth was the cause of the tournament.

At the sound of Torrhen's name his mother sat up slightly, her slight smile vanishing as she caught sight of him and then returning with even greater force and pride especially when she saw the black and red wolf on his breastplate. She didn't wave or cheer, but her smile, and the slight nod that followed was enough to make a massive grin spread over Torr's face, that and the dark frown that graced Ser Wendell's face was enough to make him laugh out loud as he bowed and donned his helmet. The laughter only serving to darken Ser Wendell's face further as Torr accepted a lance from Martyn.

Across the way his opponent had already been announced and was in position, helm locked tight and lance at the ready. The young man nodded across the way to Torr in a gesture that Torr assumed was to intend good luck, a gesture which he did his best to return. For a handful of heartbeats the two jouster's stared across the open space at each other. Then once more the horn sounded, long and mournful. With a roar Torr urged Stepper forward, the gelding leaping at his command into a gallop, his opponent followed suit, spurring his own horse forward with a screamed challenge. It took mere moments for the two men to meet, by then their lances had already swept down into position and crashed against shields.

Torr rocked heavily in his saddle as Gareth's lance broke upon his shield, the force nearly pulling him from his saddle. Yet Torr managed to keep his balance and brought Stepper around for another go. Only to find his foe struggling to his feet in the dirt of the list. Torr suppressed a smile behind his helm at his luck, he'd managed to unhorse the lad. Quickly he bowed to Lord Manderly and retreated back to the waiting area to the cheers of the commoners. Oswin, Hoarfrost and Martyn where already waiting for him, ready to clap him on the back and congratulate him.

As Torr expected Oswin was the one to ruin the moment, piping up as Martyn finished describing the noise the lordling had made when he'd hit the ground, "You got lucky Torr, lad was atrocious, he bobbled the lance more than Martyn does." He glanced at an offended Martyn and shrugged, unapologetic, "Next opponent won't be so easy." With that Oswin vanished into the crowds, off to prepare for his own tilt.

Oswin was right, the next tilt, against a barrow knight, wasn't as easy. Though Torr managed to squeak out a victory after breaking four lances. Meanwhile Oswin breezed through three opponents, dismounting all of them easily. Torr's luck ran out on his third opponent, a hedge knight dismounting him on the second tilt. The Manderly's had laughed hard at that one, though Torr had too in all honesty. After that the jousts seemed to be less interesting, Oswin easily fought his way to the final four competitor's before a sworn sword to Lord Wyman had forced him into a joust that saw two broken lances for the barrow knight. Oswin had beaten the man with a lance to the helm, dismounting him and moving on to the final joust.

The last joust of the day was the only one in which Oswin seemed truly tested. Daryn Hornwood, the heir to Hornwood, jousted against him, Daryn seemed to be the only major lord or lord's son present. The young lordling was whispered to be attending purely for his cousins benefit however, with no interest in the glory or the purse. That joust had ended after five broken lances each, with Oswin landing sound strike on they young Hornwood's breastplate to send him tumbling.

Torr remembered how he had laughed and cheered at that point, and the look of pride on Oswin's face as he'd crowned the one of Lady Barbrey's ladies in waiting the queen of love and beauty, true the tourney competition had been weak, but that didn't matter. Victory was victory no matter how bare. So now Torr and his companions joked and sang in the inn common room, drinking and feasting to Oswin's victory as they discussed plans for the Melee tomorrow, with Hoarfrost and Oswin proposing to cooperate with Torr until they where the final three. The night was growing old when a young woman wearing a dark cloak tapped on Torr's shoulder. Torr turned to her and stopped in surprise.

The girl was pretty but that wasn't what stopped him, it was the wet nurse who'd been holding his infant half-brother at the tourney. The young woman blushed deeply at his stare and leaned in rather close to speak into his ear. Torr took a moment to marvel at her breath on his ear before her words registered in his mind. "M'lady wishes a word with you ser. She bid you follow me."

In a heartbeat Torr was on his feet and following the girl, _m'lady_ could only mean one person, _mother_. Torr ignored the crude jokes that followed him and the woman as they made their way for the door, merely sending a rude gesture over his shoulder as he pushed his way none to gently through the crowd to follow the small figure outside.

 **Barbrey**

Lady Barbrey Manderly stared impatiently at the door to her sitting room, it was nearing the hour of the wolf and yet she still wore the green dress she'd worn to the joust earlier. Barbrey was not a woman who was flustered easily, she prided herself on being cool and calm, with an eye for people and organization. But now, in her own rooms in the castle that had been her home for the last seven years she was more nervous than she'd been in many years. In fact as she thought back this might be the most nervous she'd ever felt. She was going to see her son again.

A light tap came upon her door and Barbrey's thoughts returned to the present, she called out with permision to enter and Ginny opened the door. The girl was young, but Barbrey trusted her well enough, the lass had been her maidservant since the day Barbrey had arrived at White Harbor. She was discrete and clever, and she'd helped to raise all three of Barbrey's children by Wendell. Ginny bobbed into a curtsy and then stepped aside. The short maidservant being replaced in the doorway by a far larger figure.

Barbrey's breath caught in her throat for a moment when she saw him, Torrhen was the very image of his father. Tall like he was, with his jaw and his grey eyes, alight with adventure and joy, and his black hair cropped short for a helm. As she looked though she could see herself and her family in him, the broadness to his shoulder, the shape of his nose. Barbrey was proud of him in that moment, of the young man he'd grown to be. Even if everything she knew of him came from his letters and what she had observed today.

They watched each other for a few moments before Torrhen finally broke the silence, he gave her a small grin, "Its been a long time mother. You look well." Barbrey smiled back and nodded, before finally losing her self control and darting across the solar to hug her son. Torrhen stiffened momentarily in suprise before wrapping his arms around her gently, clutching her close to him. The smile was still evident in his voice when he spoke again after a handful of heartbeats, "I missed you too mother."

Barbrey composed herself and drew away, looking up at her son once more, now that she was closer she realized he was growing a beard, just a short one, only a few days along and still slightly patchy as with all young men. Barbrey's voice began to tighten, "You've grown so much, my boy's almost a man."

Torrhen blushed slightly beneath his beard, "Mother..."

Barbrey smacked him gently on the arm and released him, "Its been seven years Torrhen, pardon me if I am excited to see my son."

Torrhen grinned good naturedly, "Not your only son now though mother. What are their names?"

Barbrey glowed with pride, smiling as she spoke of her three youngest children. She knew that Torrhen was only asking out of politeness, he'd read all about his half-siblings in her letters, but she couldn't stop herself from speaking of them "Wymar is the eldest, he's already learning to use a sword, the knights say he's showing signs of great skill even now. Wanda's a sweet little girl, clever and kind, she'll make a lord very happy one day. As for Willam, well the maester says he's healthy and strong and I thank the gods for that."

Torrhen's grin never wavered, "I'm glad for you mother, from your letters you seem happy here. Though to be honest it seems your husband doesn't care much for me." He chuckled at the mention of Wendell, even as Barbrey's mood dimmed slightly. "Perhaps I'll see him in the melee tomorrow?"

Barbrey once more slapped Torrhen on the arm, now much harder. "Don't say that! He is my husband Torrhen and I'd have you treat him with respect. I don't want you two hurting each other. Promise me tomorrow you'll avoid him in the melee." It was not a request and from the look on Torrhen's face he realized that, grimacing slightly he nodded and swore to the old gods.

The rest of the night passed much more quietly and peacefully as Barbrey and Torrhen told stories from the years since they had separated, they stayed in her chambers for nearly two hours before Barbrey sent her son on his way. Mother and son embraced as Torrhen left, and more than one tear was shed as the young man made his way out of the castle and followed his mother's maidservant back to his inn.

 **Torrhen**

Torr rolled his shoulder where a lance had caught it the day before, trying to loosen the stiff muscle and ease the pain from the bruise. The melee was nearly ready to begin and he was growing more nervous by the moment. The night before had been a long one and even now as midday neared he could still feel the pounding in his head from his hangover. When he'd returned from his visit to the castle he'd found himself in the middle of a drinking contest with Oswin, a contest which he'd lost horribly as the burly barrow knight drank him under the table. Torr groaned and rubbed at his head, the cool steel of his gauntlet helping to lessen the pain slightly.

Beyond the handful of tents erected on the tourney grounds he knew that servant's had erected a great circular arena and filled bottom with sand from the beaches. Thirty men armed with blunted swords and axes would enter into that ring in mere minutes, and only one of them would emerge victorious. Torr tried to ease his mind with thoughts of his competition and the weaknesses and strengths he'd observed yesterday. Most of the combatants where young and inexperienced, low level fighters. Though Wendell Manderly and four other White Harbor knights would be particpating. Hoarfrost would be the largest and likely the strongest man in the ring. Oswin was one of the better blades, though Torr was confident of his chances against the barrow knight. That left only a handful who might be dangerous, Daryn Hornwood, some freerider from the Vale named Rother Stone, and Venon Krathe the hedge knight who'd beaten Torr in the joust.

As he ran through opponents and tactics Torr heard the sound of the herald announcing the beginning of the melee. Armored men filed into the ring as their names where announced. Some receiving cheers, others boos or silence. The crowd roared loudest of all when Oswin and Lord Wendell where announced. When the men stood ready on the edge of the ring Torr glanced around, Hoarfrost and Oswin where both to his right, the three exchanged a nod having agreed to guard each other's backs until the last handful of fighters remained. Torr tested the heavy tourney sword in his left hand and slammed his visor shut. Then the horn sounded and the melee began.

The crowd screamed in joy and blood lust as the battle began. Torr spun to his left and charged the nearest man. The tall young man swung his mace at Torr to slow, allowing Torr to duck under and slam his shield into the lad's chest. As his foe toppled backwards unsteadily Torr followed him, bringing his blade down in a ringing blow to the man's head. Without a sound the lad went limp, unconscious. Torr spun back to the main fight just in time to see and avoid a sword blow from one of Lord Manderly's knights. The blade struck the sand and threw the older man off balance enough for Torr to slam an elbow into his helm, disorienting the man further.

Growling Torr struck the knight across the back of the knee, sending him to one knee in the sand. To his credit the knight blocked a follow up blow with his shield, but then Torr slammed him across the face with his pommel, and then shield bashed the warrior's sword arm. Torr winced at the sound of bone cracking and the man's grunt of pain and hissed yield as he dropped his weapon.

By now the battle was getting interesting, less than two minutes and ten men where unconscious or had yielded. A howl rang throught the air as two men rushed Torr with axes raised, one's howl turned to a yelp of suprise as Oswin shield rushed him and engaged the man mace to axe. The remaining man kept coming and Torr grinned as he recognized Venon Krathe's build and sigil. The stocky hedge knight's axe glanced off Torr's breastplate as he struggled to get his shield interposed, and Torr was fairly certain that he heard a rib crack.

As Krathe drew back for another swing Torr launched himself forward, hammering his sword in a swift combination that threw his foe onto the back foot. Krathe managed to keep Torr's blade away, but lost his momentum in the process. Still the hedge knight was a better blade than Torr's other opponents and held his own. Torr was tied up with him for nearly two minutes before he caught the other man in the shoulder with a particularly strong backhand blow. Forcing his foe to drop his shield and allowing Torr to disarm him and force the knight to yield.

Torr stepped back again as Krathe ran for the ring's edge, out of the fight. The scene that stretched out before him now was utter chaos. Only a dozen men remained standing in the arena, the rest where either stretched out unconscious or had fled the arean after yielding. Straight ahead of him Torr saw Oswin fighting a lean man with an ox on his shield, while Hoarfrost had been disarmed and was fighting with a shield in both hands against one of the White Harbor knights, deflecting sword blows as he struggled to hold his ground. Grunting Torr charged the knight facing Hoarfrost, slamming into the man and hurling him aside. Hoarfrost nodded appreciatevly as he scooped up a fallen mace and together the two men made quick work of the knight, finishing him when Hoarfrost's mace caught him upside the helm, sending the man sprawling with a sound like a bell.

With that Torr and Hoarfrost moved away from eachother, Torr circling the melee looking for an opening as Hoarfrost engaged a fat man who could only be Wendell Manderly. Torr heard a roar behind him as he circled and spun in time to duck a mace blow. Straightening he realized this opponent was Oswin, the barrow knight shrugged apologetically through his armor as he brought his mace around for another blow, one which Torr slapped aside with his blade.

Torr struggled as he fought Oswin, his new armor was heavier than he was used to and he was beginning to tire, his ribs hurt when he breathed and his shoulder was stiffening. None of which was helped by the fact that Oswin had fought Torr before and had a basic understanding of the way he fought. The two traded blows for long moments, mace to sword, shield to shield. When luck finally won the day, Oswin made to back to avoid a slash at his chest, only for his foot to catch on a fallen knight's shield. The big barrow knight tumbled back with a curse, off balance long enough for Torr's blade to twitch up and knock aside his blade, a blow followed by the rim of Torr's shield catching the barrow knight in the chin. Oswin was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Torr winced at the crunch his shield made as it connected but none the less glanced around for his next opponent. Only three other men still stood in the ring, Wendell Manderly was standing off to the side, leaning slightly on a long handled poleaxe as he watched a pair of men fight in the arena center. As Torr finished with Oswin and stepped forward the fat knight's head snapped around and caught sight of him. Torr could almost feel Wendell's sneer from across the ring as the man straightened and hefted his poleaxe, advancing purposefully on Torr while the other two men fought behind him.

Torr raised his sword in a silent salute and charged his mother's husband with a howl that would have made Harlon proud. Wendell Manderly's advance stopped at the sound that came from Torr, but the fat knight quickly recovered and lept forward, bellowing a challenge. Torr swayed away the first heavy swing of the poleaxe, snaking his blade underneath to strike Wendell in the shoulder, a blow that the Manderly man shrugged off easily. But the fat man was quicker than Torr had expected and danced backward, his weapon flicking up in a vicious riposte, Torr was unsure of what happened but suddenly his helmet was gone, and a screaming pain ran from his jaw to just above the center of his lips. Wendell stumbled backwards, even through his visor Torr could see the surprise in the man's gaze, whatever had just happened the Manderly knight hadn't meant to do it.

All around the crowd gasped in shock, but Torr didn't bother with their surprise, he knew he was injured, and from the strange empty feeling in his mouth he'd guess he lost a tooth too. But he jumped at Wendell, pushing the advantage of the other man's surprise. As Manderly struggled to regain his composure Torr struck, his blade batting aside Manderly's polearm to catch the big man in the helm, stunning him briefly and allowing Torr to place his blade at the older man's throat. Manderly took a moment to regain his senses and stared up Torr's blade from where he was seated on the ground, Torr's blow had knocked him down. The knight nodded reluctantly and mumbled a yield. Allowing Torr to turn away, just in time for one of the two men across the arena to finish his opponent with a shield blow to the visor.

The last man besides Torr standing in the arena turned and started in suprise at Torr's helmless state. Long enough for Torr to note the moose on his breastplate, his foe was Daryn Hornwood. The heir to Hornwood wasted no time in advancing on Torr, though he had a certain bit of hesitation in his step that showed a healthy caution as he approached. As the other man approached Torr grinned slightly, wincing at the pain of it. With a quick movement he loosened his shielf on his arm and waited. Daryn waited until only five paces seperated them before charging, sword high and shield ready. Torr responded by flinging his shield free from his arm and into the other man's face. Ducking to the side as he did so, Daryn blocked the blow easily with his shield, but with the wooden barrier before his eyes the Hornwood lad couldn't see, and Torr used that to his advantage, tripping Daryn with his sword and kneeling beside him as he fell, slamming one armoured elbow into his foe's visor and knocking him unconscious with a victorious yell.

The crowd was silent for nearly twenty heartbeats as Torr stood. Then they errupted into noise, a mixture of cheers and boos. Many jeering at him for the way he'd just defeated Daryn Hornwood. But once more Torr only had eyes for the Lord's box, and once more for the woman near its back. His mother gave him a small smile and nodded, an action which caused Torr to grin widely. Slowly Torr heard the crowd quiet and Lord Manderly stood with the aid of two muscular knights, the enormous lord staring down at Torr disdainfully before he raised his voice and bellowed over the dying noise of the crowd, "A well fought melee! One which will doubtless be remembered throughout the ages. It is now my great _honour_ ". Torr flinched slightly at his emphasis of the word. "To present to you your tourney champion, Torrhen Snow of the Rills!"

 **Author's Note:**

 **Sorry this chapter took so long, got bogged down in my personal life and my editor decided to ditch me, so if anyone is interested I could use a new one, PM me if you'd like a go at it. In the meantime I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and will stick with me as I work on more. As always thank you all for reading**


	7. Chapter 7

**Torrhen**

Torr prodded at the new gap where his tooth had been with as he struggled into his best jerkin, grunting both from the pain in his mouth and the new bruises he'd earned that morning, including the cracked rib from Ser Veron's axe. Lord Manderly's maester had looked him over after the melee, in the spare moment he had caring for thirty badly bruised and bloodied men. The rib would heal in a week or two and none of the bruises would cause any more than pain, still the elderly man had given Torr some herbs for the pain and to put against his jaw to prevent infection. The worst wound was where the tip of Wendell Manderly's poleaxe had cut Torr from jawline to just below his nose, the blow that had taken the tooth as well. Manderly's axe had been suitably dulled for the melee but had still managed to leave a wide gash, one that the maester had swiftly sewn together with a warning about the scar it would likely leave.

A hammering on the door snapped Torr's head around, and he opened it to find Hoarfrost and Oswin waiting in the hall for him. Both having been invited to Lord Manderly's feast in the new castle as well, Oswin for his victory in the tournament and Hoarfrost as the son of Lord Umber. The giant Umber man in particular seemed eager to go, despite the thick splint around one hand where Hoarfrost's gauntlet had broken three of his own fingers punching another man in the helm. Oswin was unbandaged but had a large purple bruise on his chin, a bruise which he showed no indication of noticing as he gave Torr a small grin. Behind the two older men Martyn Cassell stood, tugging at his doublet nervously as his eyes darted from one man to the next.

Hoarfrost shuffled his feet like a small boy, "Torr, hurry up you ass! The feasts starting soon." Torr just groaned and shook his head, stepping out into the hallway with his companions. Without another word they quickly exited the inn and made their way towards the New Castle, leaving their horses in the stables for the short walk. Though Torr slipped inside to pat Stepper's nose and let Harlon loose, the direwolf pup yipping and growling playfully as he followed the three men up the street for the castle, the handful of people on the street gaping in shock at the pup as they passed.

Hoarfrost spent half the walk chattering excitedly about the melee, complimenting Torr and Oswin's swordsmanship and berating the bladework of the White Harbor man. Though he did offer a grudging compliment about Daryn Hornwood, the young lordling had beaten him after all. Torr tried to avoid talking for most of the trip, his new gash and missing tooth making it painful. Instead he listened to Hoarfrost's rumbled retelling of the fights he'd seen in the melee, occasionally catching snippets of Oswin and Martyn's conversation as the barrow knight quized his squire on the mistakes various knights had made during the fight. One such piece of conversation caught his attention in a brief silence by Hoarfrost as they neared the gate to the New Castle. Oswin barely seemed to notice the quiet as he spoke to his squire, "Daryn Hornwood, why'd he lose to Torr here?"

At that Martyn scratched his head and thought for a moment before answering, "He underestimated Torr? Thought he was better than him?" It came out as more of a question than an answer.

Oswin shook his head, "Every man went into that arena thinking he was the best out there, but Hornwood still knew Torr was good enough to beat him. No he lost because he put to much stock in honor. Honor's a grand thing outside a fight, but in a battle it'll just get you killed."

Torr mulled that thought over as they reached the gatehouse, Oswin wasn't entirely wrong, though the way he put that idea seemed slightly off. But Torr pushed the thought aside as the guards greeted them. Half a dozen men-at-arms flanked the raised iron portcullis, with a pair of fully armoured knights standing behind them. The knights salurted respectfully as Oswin and Martyn passed, the leaner one offering them a formal greeting as the passed within the walls.

But as Torr stepped forward their posture tightened, the lean knight spoke more stiffly as he offered his greeting. Then the man looked down and noticed Harlon, "Ser your...hound will have to remain outside the keep during the feast. We would not want it disturbing Lord Manderly's guests." A note of quiet satisfaction was in the knight's voice.

At Torr's feet Harlon bristled slightly and gave a quiet growl, at which the burlier knight dropped a hand to his sword and several of the men-at-arms looked slightly nervous. True the pup was barely the size of a hound but he carried a certain ferocity about him. Torr lowered a hand to brush Harlon's head, quieting his wolf with the touch as he grinned at the knight, ignoring the flare of pain. "Where I go the wolf goes friend." Torr leaned in closer to the speaking knight and balled his other hand into a fist his grin never wavering, "And if you call me ser again, I'll feed you your own teeth."

The White Harbor man's eyes narrowed as he drew breath to answer in a reply that would no doubt cause Torr to make good on his threat when another voice interupted him from behind. "Torrhen! You brought the direwolf just as Lady Barbrey requested! Young Lord Wymar was practically begging to see it when he heard about it." The wet nurse who had escorted Torr to his mother the previous night stood just within the gate, a look of wide eyed innocence on her face as she came forward to greet him. She turned to the lean knight and batted her eyelashes, "Oh Wymar will be so excited! Don't you agree Ser Peryn?"

The knight barely managed a stuttered agreement as he struggled to establish what was going on around him. As he floundered the wet nurse grabbed Torr by the arm and pulled him towards the keep, giggling excitedly, "Come now m'lord, I'll show you to your seat personally." Before any of the guards could say another word she'd pulled Torr along into the courtyard, Harlon close at their heels. Off to the side Oswin and Martyn watched the pretty servant lead Torr by the arm. One with amusement and the other with a slight pang of jealousy.

After a few moments they where safely out of earshot the girl's smile dropped as she pulled Torr out of sight behind the stables, "You're lucky your lady mother thought to send me down here in case you brought, _that_." She sniffed disdainfully at Harlon, who merely panted happily at her from the ground and made to nuzzle her hand searching for scraps. The girl snatched her hand away with a scowl before turning back to Torr, "Lady Barbrey also bid me to warn you to stay quiet this evening. The Manderly's are displeased enough with your presence as it is."

With that the wet nurse made to leave, spinning on her heel in a huff as she headed for the kitchens, only for Torr to catch her by the wrist. He gave her an insolent grin, then stopped as she grimaced slightly, "I never caught your name m'lady. Could I have the honor?"

The pretty girl looked him up and down with a glare that said she'd heard the same words from half a hundred knights and squires before, then after a moment her gaze flicked back to her face and she shrugged. "Ginny." The without another word Ginny yanked her arm free and continued on her way.

Torr stared after her for a moment before turning back to the courtyard and the doorway to the great hall. Striding across he was soon rejoined by his friends, Martyn glowering at him as Hoarfrost grinned like an idiot. They had nearly reached the doors when Hoarfrost spoke, his voice slightly smug, "Wasn't that the lass from the inn last night? Seems she's taken a shine to you Torr. Dragging you off for late night meetings and saving you from evil knights. Could almost say it's like in the tales."

Martyn snickered and Torr was reasonably certain he saw Oswin smile at Hoarfrost's joke, but the giant seperated from them to find his seat befor Torr could think of a proper could only count himself lucky that as the winner's of the joust and the melee he and Oswin would be sitting next to eachother at the feast, meaning he'd have someone to talk too. Then his eyes drifted to his right, past the balding, angry looking knight who would be seated next to him and to the pretty dark haired lass just beyond him. The young woman smiled shyly and hid her eyes when she caught Torr's gaze and Torr couldn't help but grin to himself. Maybe Oswin wouldn't be his only friend at the table by the end of the night.

 **Oswin**

Oswin tugged self conciously at his doublet as he stared into his plate, feasts like this always made him nervous. It was like a battlefield, but one he couldn't master, the thrusts and parry's of words and dances and coin, it all sailed around his head like a sparrow in a storm. Steel he understood, horses he understood, death and war where easy to understand, but court was another thing entirely. Looking up Oswin glanced around, people laughed and ate all around the great hall of the Manderly's, none paying any attention to him, thank the gods, the first half candle or so had been sheer terror. Answering questions about his house and deeds from a dozen different sources and angles. It hadn't taken them long to learn he wasn't' much for conversation though and the ladies and lordlings had left him be.

Oswin shot Torr a jealous glance, the court had mostly ignored his friend since the start of the feast, and Torr had used the oppurtunity to spend the time making eyes at the daughter of the knight sitting next to him, thankfully the balding man was too drunk by now to notice or even remember the fact. As Oswin turned back towards his plate, grimacing as he remembered the eels on it, a voice cut through the noise of the feast.

"Torrhen Snow. Ser Oswin." At that both Oswin and Torr turned in their seats, in time to see a tall young man come to a stop between them, Daryn Hornwood. Oswin and Torr both managed admittably clumsy bows from their seats as the heir to the Hornwood leaned in to speak to them, "If the two of you aren't too, _preoccupied,_ I'd like a chance to speak to you in private." Daryn's eyes flitted to the lass Torr was speaking with, the he jerked his head at a balcony behind him.

Oswin nodded and stood without a word, curious why Hornwood wished for a meeting. As he rose Oswin frowned, standing behind Daryn was a hulking shape that could only be Hoarfrost. The Umber lordling gave him a conspiratorial grin and a wink before following Daryn onto the balcony. Oswin followed them and heard the sound of Torr's bench sliding out behind him. His friend muttered something to his new lady love before following.

Out on the balcony the night air was cool, a pair of servants stood flanking the door but swiftly scurried indoors at a nod from Daryn. Below the balcony the harbor and the city stretched out like a painting, eerily beautiful in the night. Oswin cought his first good look at Daryn as the younger man turned to face Hoarfrost, Torr and him. The Hornwood heir was lean, with a certain confidence about him and was admittably rather handsome, with shoulder length black hair and a hawlike nose.

Daryn took a moment to look the three friends over, nodding to himself for a moment before speaking. "First off I'd like to congratulate you, Torrhen, for your victory in the melee. You as well Ser Oswin, for you jousting victory. I can say with all honesty that I did not come into the day expecting to such decisive defeats." He grinned wryly, "Despite that, I didn't ask you out here to exchange pleasantries. I spoke with Lord Umber during the feast, he told me a bit about you both."

Hoarfrost grinned again at his friends, only serving to confuse Oswin more, was this meant to be merely small talk then? He saw his confusion echoed in Torr. Daryn's grin only widened, "It seems that I am to travel to Karhold now that I've attended my cousin's tournament, and I seem to find myself short of companions as I prepare to leave." Oswin's eyes began to widen as he realized where this might be leading. "I would consider it a great favor if the three of you would consider traveling north with me as my companions."

Silence reigned for a few dozen heartbeats as Torr and Oswin thought as to what he was saying. Oswin's mind raced, this was exactly the type of thing he despised about court's, there was likely some hidden meaning to the young lordlings request. This was why he hated court, though the more he thought of it the more Oswin realized that it didn't seem like such a bad thing. He was bound northwards in any manner, Lord Cassell had bid him to show Martyn the North. His companions seemed like good company as well, the heir to one of the most powerful lordships in the North, and Torr and Hoarfrost who he'd both come to respect, there where worse options.

As Oswin opened his mouth to agree it was Torr who broke the silence, "Pardon me my lord. But what did we do to deserve this?" The skepticism was obvious in his voice.

Daryn's grin deadened slightly and he sighed, "Honestly? My father sent me out to meet my betrothed and find worthy men to become my companions and maybe sworn swords. I already know Hoarfrost some, and you and Ser Oswin seem like interesting fellows, so I've asked you."

Oswin nodded to himself, it made sense, every lord needed loyal sworn swords, and one of the best ways to find them was by meeting men yourself. Torr spoke again, this time Oswin saw his grin and instantly knew his friend's response, "Aye we'll come with you. When do we leave?"

 **The Joyful Brother**

 _The sound of men surrounded him, and their scent was everywhere in the cramped wooden den. He stretched his legs, only to bump into more wood. The warm light atop the thing he'd bumped teetered for a moment before settling. Atop one of the wooden nests men loved so much his man brother stirred in his sleep, making muttering noises before drifting off again. With a sigh he stood and moved to the hole in the wall of the den, the one that opened up to the moon and faced away from his man brother. Grunting softly he jumped so his forpaws rested on the bottom of the hole. He looked out over the great man resting place and drank in their sent for many calm beats of his heart, staring at the moon and listening for the sound of prey. He was not hungry, he and his man had fed well tonight, but it felt right to know what awaited him outside his den,_

 _Suddenly a strange feeling washed over him, one of loss and pain. Somewhere far away a piece of him was wrenched away and ceased to exsist. Raising his muzzle to the sky he instantly howled, before he even understood what it meant. The Gentle Sister, she was gone. Dead. Her man pup was now alone in the south, and the pack was weaker for it. Behind him his own man thrashed in his sleep, he felt the loss too, though he likely didn't know what it meant. Raising his muzzle again the wolf pup howled, listening to the sounds of distress and fear it caused among the men about him. None of it mattered, the Gentle Sister was dead. The Wild Sister was driven away from her man pup. The pack was seperated, the pack was weak, and the hunt was just beginning._

* * *

 **Author's Note: Sorry for another big delay with this chapter guys, just getting ready for college to start back up and got caught up in writing my DND campaign (another story I might put up here if it ever takes off). This is a relatively short and uneventful chapter but I needed it to kinda set up where Torr will be going next. There will be a bit of a time lapse between this and the next chapter, around four months or so, but hopefully we'll be getting right into the action soon. As always feel free to give advice/criticism/feedback in the comments. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!**

 **-J**


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